953 

V735 
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IC-NRLF 


B    3    315 


FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


FUGITIVE  POETRY: 


BY  Nf'pf' WILLIS. 

4f 


"  If,  however,  I  can,  by  lucky  chance,  in  these  days  of  evil,  rub  out  one  wrinkle  from 
the  brow  of  care,  or  beguile  the  heavy  heart  of  one  moment  of  sorrow  ;  if  I  can,  now  and 
then,  penetrate  the  gathering  film  of  misanthropy,  prompt  a  benevolent  view  of  human 
nature,  and  make  my  reader  more  in  good  humor  with  his  fellow  beings  and  himself,  surely, 
surely,  I  shall  not  then  have  written  entirely  in  vain."  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


BOSTON: 

PUBLISHED  BY  PEIRCE  AND  WILLIAMS 

1820. 


DISTRICT   OF  MASSACHUSETTS,  to  Wit : 

DISTRICT  CLERK'S  OFFICE. 

BE  it  remembered,  that  on  the  eleventh  day  of  September,  A.  D.  1829,  in  the 
fifty-fourth  year  of  the  Independence  of  the  United  States  of  America,  PEIRCE  AND 
WILLIAMS,  of  the  said  district,  have  deposited  in  this  office  the  title  of  a  book,  the 
right  whereof  they  claim  as  proprietors  in  the  words  following,  to  wit : 

"  Fugitive  Poetry  :  By  N.  P.  WILLIS. 

" '  If,  however,  I  can.  by  lucky  chance,  in  these  days  of  evil,  rub  out  one  wrinkle  from 
the  brow  of  care,  or  beguile  the  heart  of  one  moment  of  sorrow  5  if  I  can,  now  and 
then,  penetrate  the  gathering  film  of  misanthropy,  prompt  a  benevolent  view  of  human 
nature,  and  make  my  reader  more  in  good  humor  with  his  fellow  beings,  and  himself, 
surely;  surely,  I  shall  not  then  have  written  entirety  in  vain.'  Washington  Irving." 

In  conformity  to  the  Act  of  the  Congress  of  the  United  States,  entitled  "  An 
Act  for  the  encouragement  of  learning,  by  securing  the  copies  of  maps,  charts,  and 
books,  to  the  authors  and  proprietors  of  such  copies,  during  the  times  therein  men 
tioned  ;  "  and  also  to  an  Act  entitled  "  An  Act  supplementary  to  an  Act,  entitled  '  An 
Act  for  the  encouragement  of  learning,  by  securing  the  copies  of  maps,  charts,  and 
books,  to  the  authors  and  proprietors  of  such  copies  during  the  times  therein  men 
tioned  5 '  and  extending  the  benefits  thereof  to  the  arts  of  designing,  engraving, 
and  etching  historical  and  other  prints." 

»   w    r»  A  via     2  Clerk  of  tJie  District 
>.  W.  DAVJS,    £      of  Massachusetts. 


TO 


GEORGE  JAMES  PUMPELLY, 

MY  BEST  AND  MOST  VALUED  FRIEND, 

THIS  BOOK  IS  DEDICATED 

BY  THE  AUTHOR. 


CONTENTS 


The  Shunamite                                     .....  9 

Scene  in  Gethsemane       -                                    -           -           -  13 

Contemplation                                      -            -            .            .            -  15 

Sketch  of  a  Schoolfellow   ------  18 

Idleness                                     ------  21 

On  the  Death  of  Edward  Payson  D.  D.                 ...  24 

The  Tri-Portrait                                    -                        -            -            -  26 

January  1st,  1828    -                       -            ...  39 

January  1st,  1829                                   .            .            .            .            -  30 

Psyche,  before  the  Tribunal  of  Venus        ...  33 

On  seeing  a  beautiful  Boy  at  play        -            -            -            -            -  34 

The  Child's  first  impression  of  a  Star        ....  345 

Dedication  Hymn         -                        -----  37 

The  Baptism                                    .                        -            -            -  38 

The  Table  of  Emerald              -                                     -            -            -  39 

The  Annoyer                                    .                         -            -            -  42 

Starlight                                                                          .            .            .  44 

Lassitude    -                                                              ...  45 

Roaring  Brook  -                                    -           -           ...  46 

The  Declaration      -                        -----  48 

Isabel     -                                     ...  40 

Mere  Accident        -                       '           -            -            -           -  51 


viii  CONTENTS. 

The  Earl's  Minstrel                                          -                        -  -       53 

The  Serenade                                                            -            -            -  57 
Hero      -                                                -----       60 

April                                                                                    .           .  62 

To .      ^ 

Twenty-two                                                  ....  QQ 

On  the  Picture  of  a  child  playing.    By  FISHER.                       -  -       68 

To  a  sleeping  Boy  -                                                              -            -  70 

Sonnet                                         -            .            .            .            .  -      73 

Sonnet         -                                                  -            -            -            -  74 

Sonnet     -          -            -            -            -            .            .            .  -75 

Sonnet      -                                      •           -            -            -            -  76 

Sonnet    -                                                                                     -  -       77 

Andre's  Request     -                                                  -            -            -  78 

Discrimination                                                                            .  -       79 

The  Solitary  QQ 

Lines  on  the  death  of  Miss  Fanny  V.  Apthorp            -            -  -       82 

A  Portrait                                                       ....  33 

May      -  .       84 
On  seeing  through  a  window  a  Belle  completing  her  Toilet  for  a  Ball      86 

To  a  Belle               .....  QQ 


FUGITIVE    POETRY. 


THE   SHUNAMITE.* 

IT  was  a  sultry  day  of  summer  time. 

The  sun  pour'd  down  upon  the  ripen'd  grain 

With  quivering  heat,  and  the  suspended  leaves 

Hung  motionless.     The  cattle  on  the  hills 

Stood  still,  and  the  divided  flock  were  all 

Laying  their  nostrils  to  the  cooling  roots, 

And  the  sky  look'd  like  silver,  and  it  seem'd 

As  if  the  air  had  fainted,  and  the  pulse 

Of  nature  had  run  down,  and  ceas'd  to  beat. 

'  Haste  thee,  my  child  ! '  the  Syrian  mother  said, 
'  Thy  father  is  athirst' — and  from  the  depths 
Of  the  cool  well  under  the  leaning  tree, 
She  drew  refreshing  water,  and  with  thoughts 
Of  God's  sweet  goodness  stirring  at  her  heart, 
She  bless'd  her  beautiful  boy,  and  to  his  way 
Committed  him.     And  he  went  lightly  on, 

*  2  KINGS,  iv.  18—37. 


10  FUGITIVE  POETRY. 

With  his  soft  hands  press'd  closely  to  the  cool 
Stone  vessel,  and  his  little  naked  feet 
Lifted  with  watchful  care,  and  o'er  the  hills, 
And  thro'  the  light  green  hollows,  where  the  lambs 
Go  for  the  tender  grass,  he  kept  his  way, 
Wiling  its  distance  with  his  simple  thoughts, 
Till,  in  the  wilderness  of  sheaves,  with  brows 
Throbbing  with  heat,  he  set  his  burden  down. 

Childhood  is  restless  ever,  and  the  boy 
Stay'd  not  within  the  shadow  of  the  tree, 
But  with  a  joyous  industry  went  forth 
Into  the  reapers'  places,  and  bound  up 
His  tiny  sheaves,  and  plaited  cunningly 
The  pliant  withs  out  of  the  shining  straw, 
Cheering  their  labor  on,  till  they  forgot 
The  very  weariness  of  their  stooping  toil 
In  the  beguiling  of  his  earnest  mirth. 
Presently  he  was  silent,  and  his  eye 
Closed  as  with  dizzy  pain,  and  with  his  hand 
Press'd  hard  upon  his  forehead,  and  his  breast 
Heaving  with  the  suppression  of  a  cry, 
He  uttered  a  faint  murmur,  and  fell  back 
Upon  the  loosen'd  sheaf,  insensible. 

They  bore  him  to  his  mother,  and  he  lay 
Upon  her  knees  till  noon — and  then  he  died ! 
She  had  watch'd  every  breath,  and  kept  her  hand 
Soft  on  his  forehead,  and  gaz'd  in  upon 
The  dreamy  languor  of  his  listless  eye, 
And  she  had  laid  back  all  his  sunny  curls, 
And  kiss'd  his  delicate  lip,  and  lifted  him 
Into  her  bosom,  till  her  heart  grew  strong — 


FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


11 


His  beauty  was  so  unlike  death  !     She  leaned 
Over  him  now,  that  she  might  catch  the  low 
Sweet  music  of  his  breath,  that  she  had  learn' d 
To  love  when  he  was  slumbering  at  her  side 
In  his  unconscious  infancy — 

— "  So  still ! 

'Tis  a  soft  sleep  !     How  beautiful  he  lies, 
With  his  fair  forehead,  and  the  rosy  veins 
Playing  so  freshly  in  his  sunny  cheek  ! 
How  could  they  say  that  he  would  die  !     Oh  God ! 
I  could  not  lose  him  !     I  have  treasured  all 
His  childhood  in  my  heart,  and  even  now, 
As  he  has  slept,  my  memory  has  been  there, 
Counting  like  ingots  all  his  winning  ways — 
His  unforgotten  sweetness — 

— "  Yet  so  still  !— 

How  like  this  breathless  slumber  is  to  death ! 
I  could  believe  that  in  that  bosom  now 
There  were  no  pulse — it  beats  so  languidly  ! 
I  cannot  see  it  stir  ;  but  his  red  lip  ! — 
Death  would  not  be  so  very  beautiful ! 
And  that  half  smile — would  death  have  left  that  there  ? 
— And  should  I  not  have  felt  that  he  would  die  ? 
And  have  I  not  wept  over  him  ? — and  prayed 
Morning  and  night  for  him  1 — and  could  he  die  ? 
— No — God  will  keep  him.     He  will  be  my  pride 
Many  long  years  to  come,  and  this  fair  hair 
Will  darken  like  his  father's,  and  his  eye 
Be  of  a  deeper  blue  when  he  is  grown ; 
And  he  will  be  so  tall,  and  I  shall  look 
With  such  a  pride  upon  him  ! — He  to  die  ! " 
And  the  fond  mother  lifted  his  soft  curls, 
And  smiled,  as  if  'twere  mockery  to  think 


12 


FUGITIVE  POETRY. 

That  such  fair  things  could  perish — 

— Suddenly 

Her  hand  shrunk  from  him,  and  the  color  fled 
From  her  fix'd  lip,  and  her  supporting  knees 
Were  shook  beneath  her  child.     Her  hand  had  touch'd 
His  forehead,  as  she  dallied  with  his  hair — 
And  it  was  cold — like  clay  ! — slow — very  slow 
Came  the  misgiving  that  her  child  was  dead. 
She  sat  a  moment  and  her  eyes  were  clos'd 
In  a  still  prayer  for  strength,  and  then  she  took 
His  little  hand  and  press'd  it  earnestly — 
And  put  her  lip  to  his — and  look'd  again 
Fearfully  on  him — and  then,  bending  low, 
She  whisper'd  in  his  ear,  "  My  son  ! — My  son  ! " 
And  as  the  echo  died,  and  not  a  sound 
Broke  on  the  stillness,  and  he  lay  there  still, 
Motionless  on  her  knee — the  truth  would  come  1 
Arid  with  a  sharp,  quick  cry,  as  if  her  heart 
Were  crush'd,  she  lifted  him  and  held  him  close 
Into  her  bosom — with  a  mother's  thought — 
As  if  death  had  no  power  to  touch  him  there  ! 
****** 
The  man  of  God  came  forth,  and  led  the  child 
Unto  his  mother,  and  went  on  his  way. 
And  he  was  there — her  beautiful — her  own — 
Living  and  smiling,  on  her — with  his  arms 
Folded  about  her  neck,  and  his  warm  breath 
Breathing  upon  her  lips,  and  in  her  ear 
The  music  of  his  gentle  voice  once  more  ! 

Oh  for  a  burning  word  that  would  express 
The  measure  of  a  mother's  holy  joy, 
When  God  has  given  back  to  her  her  child 
From  death's  dark  portal !     It  surpasseth  words. 


FUGITIVE  POETRY.  13 


SCENE  IN   GETHSEMANE. 

THE  moon  was  shining  yet.     The  Orient's  brow, 

Set  with  the  morning  star,  was  not  yet  dim  ; 

And  the  deep  silence  which  subdues  the  breath 

Like  a  strong  feeling,  hung  upon  the  world 

As  sleep  upon  the  pulses  of  a  child. 

'Twas  the  last  watch  of  night.     Gethsemane, 

With  its  bath'd  leaves  of  silver,  seem'd  dissolv'd 

In  visible  stillness,  and  as  Jesus'  voice 

With  its  bewildering  sweetness  met  the  ear 

Of  his  disciples,  it  vibrated  on 

Like  the  first  whisper  in  a  silent  world. 

They  came  on  slowly.     Heaviness  oppress'd 

The  Saviour's  heart,  and  when  the  kindnesses 

Of  his  deep  love  were  pour'd,  he  felt  the  need 

Of  near  communion,  for  his  gift  of  strength 

Was  wasted  by  the  spirit's  weariness. 

He  left  them  there,  and  went  a  little  on, 

And  in  the  depth  of  that  hush'd  silentness, 

Alone  with  God,  he  fell  upon  his  face, 

And  as  his  heart  was  broken  with  the  rush 

Of  his  surpassing  agony,  and  death, 

Wrung  to  him  from  a  dying  universe, 

Were  mightier  than  the  Son  of  man  could  bear, 

He  gave  his  sorrows  way,  and  in  the  deep 

Prostration  of  his  soul,  breathed  out  the  prayer, 

"  Father,  if  it  be  possible  with  thee, 

Let  this  cup  pass  from  me."     Oh,  how  a  word, 


14  FUGITIVE  POETRY. 

Like  the  forc'd  drop  before  the  fountain  breaks, 
Stilleth  the  press  of  human  agony  ! 
The  Saviour  felt  its  quiet  in  his  soul  ; 
And  though  his  strength  was  weakness,  and  the  light 
Which  led  him  on  till  now  was  sorely  dim, 
He  breathed  a  new  submission — "  Not  my  will, 
But  thine  be  done,  oh  Father  !"     As  he  spoke, 
Voices  were  heard  in  heaven,  and  music  stole 
Out  from  the  chambers  of  the  vaulted  sky, 
As  if  the  stars  were  swept  like  instruments. 
No  cloud  was  visible,  but  radiant  wings 
Were  coming  with  a  silvery  rush  to  earth, 
•  And  as  the  Saviour  rose,  a  glorious  one, 
With  an  illumin'd  forehead,  and  the  light 
Whose  fountain  is  the  mystery  of  God 
Encalm'd  within  his  eye,  bow'd  down  to  him, 
And  nerv'd  him  with  a  ministry  of  strength. 
It  was  enough — and  with  his  godlike  brow 
Re-written,  of  his  Father's  messenger, 
With  meekness,  whose  divinity  is  more 
Than  power  and  glory,  he  return'd  again 
To  his  disciples,  and  avvak'd  their  sleep, 
For  "  he  that  should  betray  him  was  at  hand." 


FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


15 


CONTEMPLATION. 

1  THEY  are  all  up — the  innumerable  stars — 

'  And  hold  their  place  in  heaven.     My  eyes  have  been 

'  Searching  the  pearly  depths  through  which  they  spring 

'  Like  beautiful  creations,  till  I  feel 

'  As  if  it  were  a  new  and  perfect  world, 

£  Waiting  in  silence  for  the  word  of  God 

1  To  breathe  it  into  motion.     There  they  stand, 

<  Shining  in  order,  like  a  living  hymn 

'  Written  in  light,  awaking  at  the  breath 

*  Of  the  celestial  dawn,  and  praising  Him 

'  Who  made  them,  with  the  harmony  of  spheres. 

'  I  would  I  had  an  angel's  ear  to  list 

'  That  melody  !     I  would  that  I  might  float 

'  Up  in  that  boundless  element,  and  feel 

'  Its  ravishing  vibrations,  like  a  pulse 

'  Beating  in  heaven  !     My  spirit  is  athirst 

'  For  music — rarer  music  !     I  would  bathe 

'  My  soul  in  a  serener  atmosphere 

'  Than  this !     I.  long  to  mingle  with  the  flock 

'  Led  by  the  "  living  waters,"  and  lie  down 

'  In  the  "  green  pastures"  of  the  better  land  ! 

'  When  wilt  thou  break,  dull  fetter  !     When  shall  I 

'  Gather  my  wings  ;   and,  like  a  rushing  thought, 

'  Stretch  onward,  star  by  star,  up  into  heaven  !' 

Thus  mused  Alethe.     She  was  one  to  whom 
Life  had  been  like  the  witching  of  a  dream, 


16 


FUGITIVE  POETRY. 

Of  an  untroubled  sweetness.     She  was  born 

Of  a  high  race,  and  laid  upon  the  knee, 

With  her  soft  eye  perusing  listlessly 

The  fretted  roof,  or,  on  Mosaic  floors, 

Grasped  at  the  tessellated  squares,  inwrought 

With  metals  curiously.     Her  childhood  pass'd 

Like  faery — amid  fountains  and  green  haunts — 

Trying  her  little  feet  upon  a  lawn 

Of  velvet  evenness,  and  hiding  flowers 

In  her  sweet  bosom,  as  it  were  a  fair 

And  pearly  altar  to  crush  incense  on. 

Her  youth — oh  !  that  was  queenly  !     She  was  like 

A  dream  of  poetry  that  may  not  be 

Written  or  told — exceeding  beautiful ! 

And  so  came  worshippers  ;  and  rank  bow'd  down, 

And  breathed  upon  her  heart,  as  with  a  breath 

Of  pride,  and  bound  her  forehead  gorgeously 

With  dazzling  scorn,  and  gave  unto  her  step 

A  majesty  as  if  she  trod  the  sea, 

And  the  proud  waves,  unbidden,  lifted  her. 

And  so  she  grew  to  woman — her  mere  look 

Strong  as  a  monarch's  signet,  and  her  hand 

The  ambition  of  a  kingdom. 

From  all  this 

Turn'd  her  high  heart  away  !     She  had  a  mind, 
Deep  and  immortal,  and  it  would  not  feed 
On  pageantry.     She  thirsted  for  a  spring 
Of  a  serener  element,  and  drank 
Philosophy,  and  for  a  liitle  while 
She  was  allay'd — till,  presently,  it  turn'd 
Bitter  within  her,  and  her  spirit  grew 
Faint  for  undying  waters. 


FUGITIVE  POETRY.  17 

Then  she  came 

To  the  pure  fount  of  God — and  is  athirst 
No  more — save  when  the  "fever  of  the  world" 
Falleth  upon  her,  she  will  go,  sometimes, 
Out  in  the  starlight  quietness,  and  breathe 
A  holy  aspiration  after  heaven  ! 


18  FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


SKETCH  OF  A  SCHOOLFELLOW. 

HE  sat  by  me  in  school.     His  face  is  now 

Vividly  in  my  mind,  as  if  he  went 

From  me  but  yesterday — its  pleasant  smile 

And  the  rich,  joyous  laughter  of  his  eye, 

And  the  free  play  of  his  unhaughty  lip, 

So  redolent  of  his  heart !     He  was  not  fair, 

Nor  singular,  nor  over-fond  of  books, 

And  never  melancholy  when  alone. 

He  was  the  heartiest  in  the  ring,  the  last 

Home  from  the  summer's  wanderings,  and  the  first 

Over  the  threshold  when  the  school  was  done. 

All  of  us  loved  him.     We  shall  speak  his  name 

In  the  far  years  to  come,  and  think  of  him 

When  we  have  lost  life's  simplest  passages, 

And  pray  for  him — forgetting  he  is  dead — 

Life  was  in  him  so  passing  beautiful ! 

His  childhood  had  been  wasted  in  the  close 
And  airless  city.     He  had  never  thought 
That  the  blue  sky  was  ample,  or  the  stars 
Many  in  heaven,  or  the  chainless  wind 
Of  a  medicinal  freshness.     He  had  learn'd 
Perilous  tricks  of  manhood,  and  his  hand 
Was  ready,  and  his  confidence  in  himself 
Bold  as  a  quarreller's.    Then  he  came  away 
To  the  unshelter'd  hills,  and  brought  an  eye 
New  as  a  babe's  to  nature,  and  an  ear 


FUGITIVE  POETRY.  19 

As  ignorant  of  its  music.     He  was  sad. 

The  broad  hill  sides  seem'd  desolate,  and  the  woods 

Gloomy  and  dim,  and  the  perpetual  sound 

Of  wind  arid  waters  and  unquiet  leaves 

Like  the  monotony  of  a  dirge.     He  pined 

For  the  familiar  things  until  his  heart 

Sicken'd  for  home  ! — and  so  he  stole  away 

To  the  most  silent  places,  and  lay  down 

To  weep  upon  the  mosses  of  the  slopes, 

And  follow'd  listlessly  the  silver  streams, 

Till  he  found  out  the  unsunn'd  shadowings, 

And  the  green  openings  to  the  sky,  and  grew 

Fond  of  them  all  insensibly.     He  found 

Sweet  company  in  the  brooks,  and  loved  to  sit 

And  bathe  his  fingers  wantonly,  and  feel 

The  wind  upon  his  forehead  ;  and  the  leaves 

Took  a  beguiling  whisper  to  his  ear, 

And  the  bird-voices  music,  and  the  blast 

Swept  like  an  instrument  the  sounding  trees. 

His  heart  went  back  to  its  simplicity 

As  the  stirr'd  waters  in  the  night  grow  pure — 

Sadness  and  silence  and  the  dim-lit  woods 

Won  on  his  love  so  well — and  he  forgot 

His  pride  and  his  assumingness,  and  lost 

The  mimicry  of  the  man,  and  so  unlearn'd 

His  very  character  till  he  became 

As  diffident  as  a  girl. 

;Tis  very  strange 

How  nature  sometimes  wins  upon  a  child. 
Th'  experience  of  the  world  is  not  on  him, 
And  poetry  has  not  upon  his  brain 
Left  a  mock  thirst  for  solitude,  nor  love 
Writ  on  his  forehead  the  effeminate  shame 


20  FUGITIVE  POETRY. 

Which  hideth  from  men's  eyes.     He  has  a  full, 
Shadowless  heart,  and  it  is  always  toned 
More  merrily  than  the  chastened  voice  of  winds 
And  waters — yet  he  often,  in  his  mirth, 
Stops  by  the  running  brooks,  and  suddenly 
Loiters,  he  knows  not  why,  and  at  the  sight 
Of  the  spread  meadows  and  the  lifted  hills 
Feels  an  unquiet  pleasure,  and  forgets 
To  listen  for  his  fellows.     He  will  grow 
Fond  of  the  early  star,  and  lie  awake 
Gazing  with  many  thoughts  upon  the  moon, 
And  lose  himself  in  the  deep  chamber'd  sky 
With  his  untaught  philosophies.     It  breeds 
Sadness  in  older  hearts,  but  not  in  his ; 
And  he  goes  merrier  to  his  play,  and  shouts 
Louder  the  joyous  call — but  it  will  sink 
Into  his  memory  like  his  mother's  prayer, 
For  after  years  to  brood  on. 

Cheerful  thoughts 

Came  to  the  homesick  boy  as  he  became 
Wakeful  to  beauty  in  the  summer's  change, 
And  he  came  oftener  to  our  noisy  play, 
Cheering  us  on  with  his  delightful  shout 
Over  the  hills,  and  giving  interest 
With  his  keen  spirit  to  the  boyish  game. 
We  loved  him  for  his  carelessness  of  himself, 
And  his  perpetual  mirth,  and  tho'  he  stole 
Sometimes  away  into  the  woods  alone, 
And  wandered  unaccompanied  when  the  night 
Was  beautiful,  he  was  our  idol  still, 
And  we  have  not  forgotten  him,  tho'  time 
Has  blotted  many  a  pleasant  memory 
Of  boyhood  out,  and  we  are  wearing  old 
With  the  unplayfulness  of  this  grown  up  world. 


FUGITIVE  POETRY.  21 


IDLENESS. 

THE  rain  is  playing  its  soft  pleasant  tune 

Fitfully  on  the  skylight,  and  the  shade 

Of  the  fast  flying  clouds  across  my  book 

Passes  with  delicate  change.     My  merry  fire 

Sings  cheerfully  to  itself;  my  musing  cat 

Purrs  as  she  wakes  from  her  unquiet  sleep, 

And  looks  into  my  face  as  if  she  felt 

Like  me  the  gentle  influence  of  the  rain. 

Here  have  I  sat  since  morn,  reading  sometimes, 

And  sometimes  listening  to  the  faster  fall 

Of  the  large  drops,  or  rising  with  the  stir 

Of  an  unbidden  thought,  have  walked  awhile 

With  the  slow  steps  of  indolence,  my  room, 

And  then  sat  down  composedly  again 

To  my  quaint  book  of  olden  poetry. 

It  is  a  kind  of  idleness,  I  know ; 

And  I  am  said  to  be  an  idle  man — 

And  it  is  very  true.     I  love  to  go 

Out  in  the  pleasant  sun,  and  let  my  eye 

Rest  on  the  human  faces  that  pass  by, 

Each  with  its  gay  or  busy  interest ; 

And  then  I  muse  upon  their  lot,  and  read 

Many  a  lesson  in  their  changeful  cast, 

And  so  grow  kind  of  heart,  as  if  the  sight 

Of  human  beings  were  humanity. 

And  I  am  better  after  it,  and  go 

More  gratefully  to  my  rest,  and  feel  a  love 


FUGITIVE  POETRY. 

Stirring  my  heart  to  every  living  thing, 
And  my  low  prayer  has  more  humility, 
And  I  sink  lightlier  to  my  dreams — and  this, 
JTis  very  true,  is  only  idleness ! 

I  love  to  go  and  mingle  with  the  young 
In  the  gay  festal  room — when  every  heart 
Is  beating  faster  than  the  merry  tune, 
And  their  blue  eyes  are  restless,  and  their  lips 
Parted  with  eager  joy,  and  their  round  cheeks 
Flushed  with  the  beautiful  motion  of  the  dance. 
'Tis  sweet,  in  the  becoming  light  of  lamps, 
To  watch  a  brow  half  shaded,  or  a  curl 
Playing  upon  a  neck  capriciously, 
Or,  unobserved,  to  watch  in  its  delight, 
The  earnest  countenance  of  a  child.     I  love 
To  look  upon  such  things,  and  I  can  go 
Back  to  my  solitude,  and  dream  bright  dreams 
For  their  fast  coming  years,  and  speak  of  them 
Earnestly  in  my  prayer,  till  I  am  glad 
With  a  benevolent  joy — and  this,  I  know, 
To  the  world's  eye,  is  only  idleness ! 

And  when  the  clouds  pass  suddenly  away, 

And  the  blue  sky  is  like  a  newer  world, 

And  the  sweet  growing  things — forest  and  flower, 

Humble  and  beautiful  alike — are  all 

Breathing  up  odors  to  the  very  heaven — 

Or  when  the  frost  has  yielded  to  the  sun 

In  the  rich  autumn,  and  the  filmy  mist 

Lies  like  a  silver  lining  on  the  sky, 

And  the  clear  air  exhilarates,  and  life 

Simply,  is  luxury — and  when  the  hush 


FUGITIVE  POETRY.  23 

Of  twilight,  like  a  gentle  sleep,  steals  on, 
And  the  birds  settle  to  their  nests,  and  stars 
Spring  in  the  upper  sky,  and  there  is  not 
A  sound  that  is  not  low  and  musical — 
At  all  these  pleasant  seasons  I  go  out 
With  my  first  impulse  guiding  me,  and  take 
Woodpath,  or  stream,  or  sunny  mountain  side, 
And,  in  my  recklessness  of  heart,  stray  on, 
Glad  with  the  birds,  and  silent  with  the  leaves, 
And  happy  with  the  fair  and  blessed  world — 
And  this,  'tis  true,  is  only  idleness  ! 

And  I  should  love  to  go  up  to  the  sky, 
And  course  the  heaven  like  stars,  and  float  away 
Upon  the  gliding  clouds  that  have  no  stay 
In  their  swift  journey — and  'twould  be  a  joy 
To  walk  the  chambers  of  the  deep,  and  tread 
The  pearls  of  its  untrodden  floor,  and  know 
The  tribes  of  its  unfathomable  depths — 
Dwellers  beneath  the  pressure  of  a  sea ! 
And  I  should  love  to  issue  with  the  wind 
On  a  strong  errand,  and  o'ersweep  the  earth, 
With  its  broad  continents  and  islands  green, 
Like  to  the  passing  of  a  presence  on  ! — 
And  this,  'tis  true,  were  only  idleness  ! 


24  FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  EDWARD  PAYSON,  D.  D. 

A  SERVANT  of  the  living  God  is  dead ! 
His  errand  hath  been  well  and  early  done, 
And  early  hath  he  gone  to  his  reward. 
He  shall  come  no  more  forth,  but  to  his  sleep 
Hath  silently  lain  down,  and  so  shall  rest. 

Would  ye  bewail  our  brother  ?     He  hath  gone 
To  Abraham's  bosom.     He  shall  no  more  thirst, 
Nor  hunger,  but  forever  in  the  eye, 
Holy  and  meek,  of  Jesus,  he  may  look, 
Unchided,  and  untempted,  and  unstained. 
Would  ye  bewail  our  brother  ?     He  hath  gone 
To  sit  down  with  the  prophets  by  the  clear 
And  crystal  waters  ;  he  hath  gone  to  list 
Isaiah's  harp  and  David's,  and  to  walk 
With  Enoch,  and  Elijah,  and  the  host 
Of  the  just  men  made  perfect.     He  shall  bow 
At  Gabriel's  Hallelujah,  and  unfold 
The  scroll  of  the  Apocalypse  with  John, 
And  talk  of  Christ  with  Mary,  and  go  back 
To  the  last  supper,  and  the  garden  prayer 
With  the  belov'd  disciple.     He  shall  hear 
The  story  of  the  Incarnation  told 
By  Simeon,  and  the  Triune  mystery 
Burning  upon  the  fervent  lips  of  Paul. 
He  shall  have  wings  of  glory,  and  shall  soar 
To  the  remoter  firmaments,  and  read 


FUGITIVE  POETRY.  25 

The  order  and  the  harmony  of  stars  ; 

And,  in  the  might  of  knowledge,  he  shall  bow 

In  the  deep  pauses  of  Archangel  harps, 

And  humble  as  the  Seraphim,  shall  cry — 

Who  by  his  searching,  Jinds  thee  out,  Oh  God  ! 

There  shall  he  meet  his  children  who  have  gone 
Before  him,  and  as  other  years  roll  on, 
And  his  loved  flock  go  up  to  him,  his  hand 
Again  shall  lead  them  gently  to  the  Lamb, 
And  bring  them  to  the  living  waters  there. 

Is  it  so  good  to  die  !  and  shall  we  mourn 
That  he  is  taken  early  to  his  rest  ? 
Tell  me  !  Oh  mourner  for  the  man  of  God  ! 
Shall  we  bewail  our  brother  that  he  died  ? 


26  FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


THE  TRI-PORTRAIT. 

'TWAS  a  rich  night  in  June.     The  air  was  all 

Fragrance  and  balm,  and  the  wet  leaves  were  stirred 

By  the  soft  fingers  of  the  southern  wind, 

And  caught  the  light  capriciously,  like  wings 

Haunting  the  greenwood  with  a  silvery  sheen. 

The  stars  might  not  be  numbered,  and  the  moon 

Exceeding  beautiful,  went  up  in  heaven, 

And  took  her  place  in  silence,  and  a  hush, 

Like  the  deep  Sabbath  of  the  night,  came  down 

And  rested  upon  nature.     I  was  out 

With  three  sweet  sisters  wandering,  and  my  thoughts 

Took  color  of  the  moonlight,  and  of  them, 

And  I  was  calm  and  happy.     Their  deep  tones, 

Low  in  the  stillness,  and  by  that  soft  air 

Melted  to  reediriess,  bore  out,  like  song, 

The  language  of  high  feelings,  and  I  felt 

How  excellent  is  woman  when  she  gives 

To  the  fine  pulses  of  her  spirit  way. 

One  was  a  noble  being,  with  a  brow 

Ample  arid  pure,  and  on  it  her  black  hair 

Was  parted,  like  a  raven's  wing  on  snow. 

Her  tone  was  low  and  sweet,  and  in  her  smile 

You  read  intense  affections.     Her  moist  eye 

Had  a  most  rare  benignity  ;  her  mouth, 

Bland  and  unshadowed  sweetness ;  and  her  face 

Was  full  of  that  mild  dignity  that  gives 

A  holiness  to  woman.     She  was  one 


FUGITIVE  POETRY.  27 

Whose  virtues  blossom  daily,  and  pour  out 
A  fragrance  upon  all  who  in  her  path 
Have  a  blest  fellowship.     I  longed  to  be 
Her  brother,  that  her  hand  might  lie  upon 
My  forehead,  and  her  gentle  voice  allay 
The  fever  that  is  at  my  heart  sometimes. 

There  was  a  second  sister  who  might  witch 

An  angel  from  his  hymn.     I  cannot  tell 

The  secret  of  her  beauty.     It  is  more 

Than  her  slight  penciled  lip,  and  her  arch  eye 

Laughing  beneath  its  lashes,  as  if  life 

Were  nothing  but  a  merry  mask  ;  'tis  more 

Than  motion,  though  she  moveth  like  a  fay  ; 

Or  music,  though  her  voice  is  like  a  reed 

Blown  by  a  low  south  wind ;  or  cunning  grace, 

Though  all  she  does  is  beautiful ;  or  thought, 

Or  fancy,  or  a  delicate  sense,  though  mind 

Is  her  best  gift,  and  poetry  her  world, 

And  she  will  see  strange  beauty  in  a  flower 

As  by  a  subtle  vision.     I  care  not 

To  know  how  she  bewitches  ;  'tis  enough 

For  me  that  I  can  listen  to  her  voice 

And  dream  rare  dreams  of  music,  or  converse 

Upon  unwrit  philosophy,  till  I 

Am  wildered  beneath  thoughts  I  cannot  bound 

And  the  red  lip  that  breathes  them. 

On  my  arm 

Leaned  an  unshadowed  girl,  who  scarcely  yet 
Had  numbered  fourteen  summers.     I  know  not 
How  I  shall  draw  her  picture — the  young  heart 
Has  such  a  restlessness  of  change,  and  each 
Of  its  wild  moods  so  lovely  !     I  can  see 


28  FUGITIVE  POETRY. 

Her  figure  in  its  rounded  beauty  now, 

With  her  half-flying  step,  her  clustering  hair 

Bathing  a  neck  like  Hebe's,  and  her  face 

By  a  glad  heart  made  radiant.     She  was  full 

Of  the  romance  of  girlhood.     The  fair  world 

Was  like  an  unmarred  Eden  to  her  eye, 

And  every  sound  was  music,  and  the  tint 

Of  every  cloud  a  silent  poetry. 

Light  to  thy  path,  bright  creature !  I  would  charm 

Thy  being  if  I  could,  that  it  should  be 

Ever  as  now  thou  dreamest,  and  flow  on 

Thus  innocent  and  beautiful  to  heaven ! 

We  walked  beneath  the  full  and  mellow  moon 

Till  the  late  stars  had  risen.     It  was  not 

In  silence,  though  we  did  not  seem  to  break 

The  hush  with  our  low  voices ;  but  our  thoughts 

Stirred  deeply  at  their  sources  ;  and  when  night 

Divided  us,  I  slumbered  with  a  peace 

Floating  about  my  heart,  which  only  comes 

From  high  communion.     I  shall  never  see 

That  silver  moon  again  without  a  crowd 

Of  gentle  memories,  and  a  silent  prayer, 

That  when  the  night  of  life  shall  oversteal 

Your  sky,  ye  lovely  sisters  !  there  may  be 

A  light  as  beautiful  to  lead  you  on. 


FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


29 


JANUARY  1,  1828. 

FLEETLY  hath  past  the  year.     The  seasons  came 

Duly  as  they  are  wont — the  gentle  Spring, 

And  the  delicious  Summer,  and  the  cool, 

Rich  Autumn,  with  the  nodding  of  the  grain, 

And  Winter,  like  an  old  and  hoary  man, 

Frosty  and  stiff — and  so  are  chronicled. 

We  have  read  gladness  in  the  new  green  leaf, 

And  in  the  first  blown  violets  ;  we  have  drunk 

Cool  water  from  the  rock,  and  in  the  shade 

Sunk  to  the  noon-tide  slumber  ; — we  have  eat 

The  mellow  fruitage  of  the  bending  tree, 

And  girded  to  our  pleasant  wanderings 

When  the  cool  wind  came  freshly  from  the  hills  ; 

And  when  the  tinting  of  the  Autumn  leaves 

Had  faded  from  its  glory,  we  have  sat 

By  the  good  fires  of  Winter,  and  rejoiced 

Over  the  fulness  of  the  gathered  sheaf. 

11  God  hath  been  very  good  !"     'Tis  He  whose  hand 

Moulded  the  sunny  hills,  and  hollowed  out 

The  shelter  of  the  valleys,  arid  doth  keep 

The  fountains  in  their  secret  places  cool ; 

And  it  is  He  who  leadeth  up  the  sun, 

And  ordereth  the  starry  influences, 

And  tempereth  the  keenness  of  the  frost — 

And  therefore,  in  the  plenty  of  the  feast, 

And  in  the  lifting  of  the  cup,  let  HIM 

Have  praises  for  the  well-completed  year. 


30  FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


JANUARY  1,  1829. 

WINTER  is  come  again.     The  sweet  south  west 
Is  a  forgotten  wind,  and  the  strong  earth 
Has  laid  aside  its  mantle  to  be  bound 
By  the  frost  fetter.     There  is  not  a  sound 
Save  of  the  skaiter's  heel,  and  there  is  laid 
An  icy  finger  on  the  lip  of  streams, 
And  the  clear  icicle  hangs  cold  and  still, 
And  the  snow-fall  is  noiseless  as  a  thought. 
Spring  has  a  rushing  sound,  and  Summer  sends 
Many  sweet  voices  with  its  odors  out, 
And  Autumn  rustleth  its  decaying  robe 
With  a  complaining  whisper.     Winter's  dumb  ! 
God  made  his  ministry  a  silent  one, 
And  he  has  given  him  a  foot  of  steel 
And  an  unlovely  aspect,  and  a  breath 
Sharp  to  the  senses — and  we  know  that  He 
Tempereth  well,  and  hath  a  meaning  hid 
Under  the  shadow  of  his  hand.     Look  up ! 
And  it  shall  be  interpreted — Your  home 
Hath  a  temptation  now.     There  is  no  voice 
Of  waters  with  beguiling  for  your  ear, 
And  the  cool  forest  and  the  meadows  green 
Witch  not  your  feet  away  ;  and  in  the  dells 
There  are  no  violets,  and  upon  the  hills 
There  are  no  sunny  places  to  lie  down. 
You  must  go  in,  and  by  your  cheerful  fire 
Wait  for  the  offices  of  love,  and  hear 


FUGITIVE  POETRY.  31 

Accents  of  human  tenderness,  and  feast 
Your  eye  upon  the  beauty  of  the  young. 
It  is  a  season  for  the  quiet  thought, 
And  the  still  reckoning  with  thyself.     The  year 
Gives  back  the  spirits  of  its  dead,  and  time 
Whispers  the  history  of  its  vanished  hours ; 
And  the  heart,  calling  its  affections  up, 
Counteth  its  wasted  ingots.     Life  stands  still 
And  settles  like  a  fountain,  and  the  eye 
Sees  clearly  through  its  depths,  and  noteth  all 
That  stirred  its  troubled  waters.     It  is  well 
That  Winter  with  the  dying  year  should  come  ! 


32  FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


PSYCHE, 

BEFORE  THE  TRIBUNAL  OF  VENUS. 

LIFT  up  thine  eyes,  sweet  Psyche !     What  is  she 

That  those  soft  fringes  timidly  should  fall 

Before  her,  and  thy  spiritual  brow 

Be  shadowed  as  her  presence  were  a  cloud  ? 

A  loftier  gift  is  thine  than  she  can  give — 

That  queen  of  beauty.     She  may  mould  the  brow 

To  perfectness,  and  give  unto  the  form 

A  beautiful  proportion  ;  she  may  stain 

The  eye  with  a  celestial  blue — the  cheek 

With  carmine  of  the  sunset ;  she  may  breathe 

Grace  into  every  motion,  like  the  play 

Of  the  least  visible  tissue  of  a  cloud  ; 

She  may  give  all  that  is  within  her  own 

Bright  cestus — and  one  silent  look  of  thine, 

Like  stronger  magic,  will  outcharm  it  all. 

Ay,  for  the  soul  is  better  than  its  frame, 
The  spirit  than  its  temple.     What's  the  brow, 
Or  the  eye's  lustre,  or  the  step  of  air, 
Or  color,  but  the  beautiful  links  that  chain 
The  mind  from  its  rare  element  ?     There  lies 
A  talisman  in  intellect  which  yields 
Celestial  music,  when  the  master  hand 
Touches  it  cunningly.     It  sleeps  beneath 
The  outward  semblance,  and  to  common  sight 


FUGITIVE  POETRY. 

Is  an  invisible  and  hidden  thing ; 

But  when  the  lip  is  faded,  and  the  cheek 

Robbed  of  its  daintiness,  and  when  the  form 

Witches  the  sense  no  more,  and  human  love 

Falters  in  its  idolatry,  this  spell 

Will  hold  its  strength  unbroken,  and  go  on 

Stealing  anew  the  affections. 

Marvel  not 

That  Love  leans  sadly  on  his  bended  bow. 
He  hath  found  out  the  loveliness  of  mind, 
And  he  is  spoilt  for  beauty.     So  'twill  be 
Ever — the  glory  of  the  human  form 
Is  but  a  perishing  thing,  and  Love  will  droop 
When  its  brief  grace  hath  faded ;  but  the  mind 
Perisheth  not,  and  when  the  outward  charm 
Hath  had  its  brief  existence,  it  awakes, 
And  is  the  lovelier  that  it  slept  so  long — 
Like  wells  that  by  the  wasting  of  their  flow 
Have  had  their  deeper  fountains  broken  up. 


34  FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


ON  SEEING  A  BEAUTIFUL  BOY  AT  PLAY. 

DOWN  the  green  slope  he  bounded.     Raven  curls 

From  his  white  shoulders  by  the  winds  were  swept, 

And  the  clear  color  of  his  sunny  cheek 

Was  bright  with  motion.     Through  his  open  lips 

Shone  visibly  a  delicate  line  of  pearl, 

Like  a  white  vein  within  a  rosy  shell, 

And  his  dark  eye's  clear  brilliance,  as  it  lay 

Beneath  his  lashes,  like  a  drop  of  dew 

Hid  in  the  moss,  stole  out  as  covertly 

As  starlight  from  the  edging  of  a  cloud. 

I  never  saw  a  boy  so  beautiful. 

His  step  was  like  the  stooping  of  a  bird, 

And  his  limbs  melted  into  grace  like  things 

Shaped  by  the  wind  of  summer.     He  was  like 

A  painter's  fine  conception — such  an  one 

As  he  would  have  of  Ganymede,  and  weep 

Upon  his  pallet  that  he  could  not  win 

The  vision  to  his  easel.     Who  could  paint 

The  young  and  shadowless  spirit  1  Who  could  chain 

The  visible  gladness  of  a  heart  that  lives, 

Like  a  glad  fountain,  in  the  eye  of  light, 

With  an  unbreathing  pencil  1     Nature's  gift 

Has  nothing  that  is  like  it.     Sun  and  stream, 

And  the  new  leaves  of  June,  and  the  young  lark 

That  flees  away  into  the  depths  of  heaven, 

Lost  in  his  own  wild  music,  and  the  breath 

Of  springtime,  and  the  summer  eve,  and  noon 


FUGITIVE  POETRY.  35 

In  the  cool  autumn,  are  like  fingers  swept 
Over  sweet-toned  affections — but  the  joy 
That  enters  to  the  spirit  of  a  child 
Is  deep  as  his  young  heart :  his  very  breath, 
The  simple  sense  of  being,  is  enough 
To  ravish  him,  and  like  a  thrilling  touch 
He  feels  each  moment  of  his  life  go  by. 

Beautiful,  beautiful  childhood  !  with  a  joy 
That  like  a  robe  is  palpable,  and  flung 
Out  by  your  every  motion  !  delicate  bud 
Of  the  immortal  flower  that  will  unfold 
And  come  to  its  maturity  in  heaven  ! 
I  weep  your  earthly  glory.     'Tis  a  light 
Lent  to  the  new  born  spirit  that  goes  out 
With  the  first  idle  wind.     It  is  the  leaf 
Fresh  flung  upon  the  river,  that  will  dance 
Upon  the  wave  that  stealeth  out  its  life, 
Then  sink  of  its  own  heaviness.     The  face 
Of  the  delightful  earth  will  to  your  eye 
Grow  dim  ;  the  fragrance  of  the  many  flowers 
Be  noticed  not,  and  the  beguiling  voice 
Of  nature  in  her  gentleness  will  be 
To  manhood's  senseless  ear  inaudible. 
I  sigh  to  look  upon  thy  face,  young  boy  ! 


36  FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


A  CHILD'S   FIRST   IMPRESSION   OF  A   STAR. 

SHE  had  been  told  that  God  made  all  the  stars 
That  twinkled  up  in  heaven,  and  now  she  stood 
Watching  the  coming  of  the  twilight  on, 
As  if  it  were  a  new  and  perfect  world, 
And  this  were  its  first  eve.     How  beautiful 
Must  be  the  work  of  nature  to  a  child 
In  its  first  fresh  impression  !     Laura  stood 
By  the  low  window,  with  the  silken  lash 
Of  her  soft  eye  upraised,  and  her  sweet  mouth 
Half  parted  with  the  new  and  strange  delight 
Of  beauty  that  she  could  not  comprehend, 
And  had  not  seen  before.     The  purple  folds 
Of  the  low  sunset  clouds,  and  the  blue  sky 
That  look'd  so  still  and  delicate  above, 
FilPd  her  young  heart  with  gladness,  and  the  eve 
Stole  on  with  its  deep  shadows,  and  she  still 
Stood  looking  at  the  west  with  that  half  smile, 
As  if  a  pleasant  thought  were  at  her  heart. 
Presently,  in  the  edge  of  the  last  tint 
Of  sunset,  where  the  blue  was  melted  in 
To  the  faint  golden  mellowness,  a  star 
Stood  suddenly.     A  laugh  of  wild  delight 
Burst  from  her  lips,  and  putting  up  her  hands, 
Her  simple  thought  broke  forth  expressively — 
"  Father  !  dear  Father  !  God  has  made  a  star  ! " 


FUGITIVE  POETRY.  37 


DEDICATION  HYMN. 

THE  perfect  world  by  Adam  trod, 
Was  the  first  temple — built  by  God — 
His  fiat  laid  the  corner  stone, 
And  heav'd  its  pillars,  one  by  one. 

He  hung  its  starry  roof  on  high — 
The  broad  illimitable  sky  ; 
He  spread  its  pavement,  green  and  bright, 
And  curtain'd  it  with  morning  light. 

The  mountains  in  their  places  stood — 
The  sea — the  sky — and  "  all  was  good ;" 
And,  when  its  first  pure  praises  rang, 
The  "  morning  stars  together  sang." 

Lord  !  'tis  not  ours  to  make  the  sea 
And  earth  and  sky  a  house  for  thee ; 
But  in  thy  sight  our  off 'ring  stands — 
A  humbler  temple,  "  made  with  hands." 


38  FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


THE  BAPTISM. 

SHE  stood  up  in  the  meekness  of  a  heart 

Resting  on  God,  and  held  her  fair  young  child 

Upon  her  bosom,  with  its  gentle  eyes 

Folded  in  sleep,  as  if  its  soul  had  gone 

To  whisper  the  baptismal  vow  in  Heaven. 

The  prayer  went  up  devoutly,  and  the  lips 

Of  the  good  man  glowed  fervently  with  faith 

That  it  would  be,  even  as  he  had  pray'd, 

And  the  sweet  child  be  gather'd  to  the  fold 

Of  Jesus.     As  the  holy  words  went  on 

Her  lips  mov'd  silently,  and  tears,  fast  tears 

Stole  from  beneath  her  lashes,  and  upon 

The  forehead  of  the  beautiful  child  lay  soft 

With  the  baptismal  water.     Then  I  thought 

That,  to  the  eye  of  God,  that  mother's  tears 

Would  be  a  deeper  covenant,  which  sin 

And  the  temptations  of  the  world,  and  death 

Would  leave  unbroken,  and  that  she  would  know 

In  the  clear  light  of  heaven,  how  very  strong 

The  prayer  which  press'd  them  from  her  heart  had  been 

In  leading  its  young  spirit  up  to  God. 


FUGITIVE  POETRY.  39 


THE  TABLE  OF  EMERALD. 


Deep,  it  is  said,  under  yonder  pyramid,  has  for  ages  lain  concealed  the  Table  of 
Emerald,  on  which  the  thrice-great  Hermes  engraved,  before  the  flood,  the  secret  of 
Alchemy  that  gives  gold  at  will.  Epicurean. 


THAT  '  Emerald  Green  of  the  Pyramid ' — 

Were  I  where  it  is  laid, 
I'd  ask  no  king  for  his  heavy  crown, 

As  its  hidden  words  were  said. 
The  pomp  and  the  glitter  of  worldly  pride 

Should  fetter  my  moments  not, 
And  the  natural  thought  of  an  open  mind, 

Should  govern  alone  my  lot. 

Would  I  feast  all  day  ?  revel  all  night  ? 

Laugh  with  a  weary  heart  1 
Would  I  sleep  away  the  breezy  morn  1 

And  wake  till  the  stars  depart  ? 
Would  I  gain  no  knowledge,  and  search  no  deep 

For  the  wisdom  that  sages  knew  1 
Would  I  run  to  waste  with  a  human  mind — 

To  its  noble  trust  untrue  1 

Oh  !  knew  I  the  depth  of  that '  Emerald  Green,' 

And  knew  I  the  spell  of  gold, 
1  would  never  poison  a  fresh  young  heart 

With  the  taint  of  customs  old. 


40  FUGITIVE  POETRY. 

I  would  bind  no  wreath  to  my  forehead  free 
In  whose  shadow  a  thought  would  die, 

Nor  drink  from  the  cup  of  revelry, 
The  ruin  my  gold  would  buy. 

But  I'd  break  the  fetters  of  care  worn  things, 

And  be  spirit  and  fancy  free, 
My  mind  should  go  up  where  it  longs  to  go, 

And  the  limitless  wind  outflee. 
I'd  climb  to  the  eyries  of  eagle  men 

Till  the  stars  became  a  scroll ; 
And  pour  right  on,  like  the  even  sea, 

In  the  strength  of  a  governed  soul. 

Ambition  !  Ambition  !  I've  laughed  to  scorn 

Thy  robe  and  thy  gleaming  sword  ; 
I  would  follow  sooner  a  woman's  eye, 

Or  the  spell  of  a  gentle  word  ; 
But  come  with  the  glory  of  human  mind, 

And  the  light  of  the  scholar's  brow, 
And  my  heart  shall  be  taught  forgetfulness, 

And  alone  at  thy  altar  bow. 

There  was  one  dark  eye — it  hath  passed  away ! 

There  was  one  deep  tone — 'tis  not ! 
Could  I  see  it  now — could  I  hear  it  now, 

Ye  were  all  too  well  forgot. 
My  heart  brought  up,  from  its  chambers  deep, 

The  sum  of  its  earthly  love  ; 
But  it  might  not — could  not — buy  like  Heaven, 

And  she  stole  to  her  rest  above. 

That  first  deep  love  I  have  taken  back, 
In  my  rayless  heart  to  hide  ; 


FUGITIVE  POETRY.  41 


With  the  tear  it  brought  for  a  burning  seal, 

'Twill  there  forever  bide. 
I  may  stretch  on  now  to  a  nobler  ken, 

I  may  live  in  my  thoughts  of  flame — 
The  tie  is  broken  that  kept  me  back, 

And  my  spirit  is  on,  for  fame ! 

But  alas !  I  am  dreaming  as  if  I  knew 

The  spell  of  the  tablet  green  ; 
I  forgot  how  like  to  a  broken  reed, 

Is  the  lot  on  which  I  lean. 
There  is  nothing  true  of  my  idle  dream, 

But  the  wreck  of  my  early  love ; 
And  my  mind  is  coined  for  my  daily  bread, 

And  how  can  it  soar  above  ? 


42  FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


THE  ANNOYER. 


Sogna  il  gnerrierle  schiere, 
Le  selve  il  cacciator; 
E  sog-na  il  pescator  ; 
Le  reti,  e  1'  amo.  Metastasio. 


LOVE  knoweth  every  form  of  air, 

And  every  shape  of  earth, 
And  comes,  unbidden,  everywhere, 

Like  thought's  mysterious  birth. 
The  moonlight  sea  and  the  sunset  sky 

Are  written  with  Love's  words, 
And  you  hear  his  voice  unceasingly, 

Like  song  in  the  time  of  birds. 

He  peeps  into  the  warrior's  heart 

From  the  tip  of  a  stooping  plume, 
And  the  serried  spears,  and  the  many  men 

May  riot  deny  him  room. 
He'll  come  to  his  tent  in  the  weary  night, 

And  be  busy  in  his  dream  ; 
And  he'll  float  to  his  eye  in  morning  light 

Like  a  fay  on  a  silver  beam. 

He  hears  the  sound  of  the  hunter's  gun, 

And  rides  on  the  echo  back, 
And  sighs  in  his  ear  like  a  stirring  leaf, 

And  flits  in  his  woodland  track. 


FUGITIVE  POETRY.  43 

The  shade  of  the  wood,  and  the  sheen  of  the  river, 

The  cloud,  and  the  open  sky — 
He  will  haunt  them  all  with  his  subtle  quiver, 

Like  the  light  of  your  very  eye. 

The  fisher  hangs  over  the  leaning  boat, 

And  ponders  the  silver  sea, 
For  Love  is  under  the  surface  hid, 

And  a  spell  of  thought  has  he. 
He  heaves  the  wave  like  a  bosom  sweet, 

And  speaks  in  the  ripple  low, 
Till  the  bait  is  gone  from  the  crafty  line, 

And  the  hook  hangs  bare  below. 

He  blurs  the  print  of  the  scholar's  book, 

And  intrudes  in  the  maiden's  prayer. 
And  profanes  the  cell  of  the  holy  man, 

In  the  shape  of  a  lady  fair. 
In  the  darkest  night,  and  the  bright  daylight, 

In  earth,  and  sea,  and  sky, 
In  every  home  of  human  thought, 

Will  Love  be  lurking  nigh. 


44  FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


STARLIGHT. 

THE  evening  star  will  twinkle  presently. 

The  last  small  bird  is  silent,  and  the  bee 

Has  gone  into  his  hive,  and  the  shut  flowers 

Are  bending  as  if  sleeping  on  the  stem, 

And  all  sweet  living  things  are  slumbering 

In  the  deep  hush  of  nature's  resting  time. 

The  faded  West  looks  deep,  as  if  its  blue 

Were  searchable,  and  even  as  I  look, 

The  twilight  hath  stole  over  it,  and  made 

Its  liquid  eye  apparent,  and  above 

To  the  far-stretching  zenith,  and  around, 

As  if  they  waited  on  her  like  a  queen, 

Have  stole  out  the  innumerable  stars 

To  twinkle  like  intelligence  in  heaven. 

Is  it  not  beautiful,  my  fair  Adel  ? 

Fit  for  the  young  affections  to  come  out 

And  bathe  in  like  an  element !     How  well 

The  night  is  made  for  tenderness — so  still 

That  the  low  whisper,  scarcely  audible, 

Is  heard  like  music,  and  so  deeply  pure 

That  the  fond  thought  is  chastened  as  it  springs 

And  on  the  lip  made  holy.     I  have  won 

Thy  heart,  my  gentle  girl !  but  it  hath  been 

When  that  soft  eye  was  on  me,  and  the  love 

I  told  beneath  the  evening  influence 

Shall  be  as  constant  as  its  gentle  star. 


FUGITIVE  POETRY.  45 


LASSITUDE. 

I  WILL  throw  by  my  book.     The  weariness 

Of  too  much  study  presses  on  my  brain, 

And  thought's  close  fetter  binds  upon  my  brow 

Like  a  distraction,  and  I  must  give  o'er. 

Morning  hath  seen  me  here,  and  noon,  and  eve  ; 

And  midnight  with  its  deep  and  solemn  hush 

Has  look'd  upon  my  labors,  and  the  dawn, 

With  its  sweet  voices,  and  its  tempting  breath 

Has  driven  me  to  rest — and  I  can  bear 

The  burden  of  such  weariness  no  more. 

I  have  foregone  society,  and  fled 

From  a  sweet  sister's  fondness,  and  from  all 

A  home's  alluring  blandishments,  and  now 

When  I  am  thirsting  for  them,  and  my  heart 

Would  leap  at  the  approaches  of  their  kind 

And  gentle  offices,  they  are  not  here, 

And  I  must  feel  that  I  am  all  alone. 

Oh,  for  the  fame  of  this  forgetful  world 

How  much  we  suffer  !     Were  it  all  for  this — 

Were  nothing  but  the  empty  praise  of  men 

The  guerdon  of  this  sedentary  toil — 

Were  this  world's  perishable  honors  all — 

I'd  bound  from  its  confinement  as  a  hart 

Leaps  from  its  hunters — but  I  know,  that  when 

My  name  shall  be  forgotten,  and  my  frame 

Rests  from  its  labors,  I  shall  find  above 

A  work  for  the  capacities  I  win, 

And,  as  I  discipline  my  spirit  here, 

My  lyre  shall  have  a  nobler  sweep  in  Heaven. 


46  FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


"  ROARING  BROOK  :"— CHESHIRE,  CON. 

IT  was  a  mountain  stream  that  with  the  leap 

Of  its  impatient  waters  had  worn  out 

A  channel  in  the  rock,  and  wash'd  away 

The  earth  that  had  upheld  the  tall  old  trees, 

Till  it  was  darken'd  with  the  shadowy  arch 

Of  the  o'er-leaning  branches.     Here  and  there 

It  loiter'd  in  a  broad  and  limpid  pool 

That  circled  round  demurely,  and  anon 

Sprung  violently  over  where  the  rock 

Fell  suddenly,  and  bore  its  bubbles  on, 

Till  they  were  broken  by  the  hanging  moss, 

As  anger  with  a  gentle  word  grows  calm. 

In  spring-time,  when  the  snows  were  coming  down, 

And  in  the  flooding  of  the  Autumn  rains, 

No  foot  might  enter  there — but  in  the  hot 

And  thirsty  summer,  when  the  fountains  slept, 

You  could  go  its  channel  in  the  shade, 

To  the  far  sources,  with  a  brow  as  cool 

As  in  the  grotto  of  the  anchorite. 

Here  when  an  idle  student  have  I  come, 

And  in  a  hollow  of  the  rock  lain  down 

And  mus'd  until  the  eventide,  or  read 

Some  fine  old  Poet  till  my  nook  became 

A  haunt  of  faery,  or  the  busy  flow 

Of  water  to  my  spell-bewilder'd  ear 

Seem'd  like  the  din  of  some  gay  tournament. 

Pleasant  have  been  such  hours,  and  tho'  the  wise 


FUGITIVE  POETRY.  47 

Have  said  that  I  was  indolent,  and  they 

Who  taught  me  have  reprov'd  me  that  I  play'd 

The  truant  in  the  leafy  month  of  June, 

I  deem  it  true  philosophy  in  him 

Whose  spirit  must  be  temper'd  of  the  world, 

To  loiter  with  these  wayside  comforters. 


48  FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


THE  DECLARATION. 

'TwAs  late,  and  the  gay  company  was  gone, 
And  light  lay  soft  on  the  deserted  room 
From  alabaster  vases,  and  a  scent 
Of  orange  leaves,  and  sweet  verbena  came 
Through  the  unshutter'd  window  on  the  air, 
And  the  rich  pictures  with  their  dark  old  tints 
Hung  like  a  twilight  landscape,  and  all  things 
Seem'd  hush'd  into  a  slumber.     Isabel, 
The  dark  eyed,  spiritual  Isabel 
Was  leaning  on  her  harp,  and  I  had  staid 
To  whisper  what  I  could  not  when  the  crowd 
Hung  on  her  look  like  worshippers.     I  knelt, 
And  with  the  fervor  of  a  lip  unused 
To  the  cool  breath  of  reason,  told  my  love. 
There  was  no  answer,  and  I  took  the  hand 
That  rested  on  the  strings,  and  pressed  a  kiss 
Upon  it  unforbidden — and  again 
Besought  her,  that  this  silent  evidence 
That  I  was  not  indifferent  to  her  heart, 
Might  have  the  seal  of  one  sweet  syllable. 
I  kissed  the  small  white  fingers  as  I  spoke, 
And  she  withdrew  them  gently,  and  upraised 
Her  forehead  from  its  resting  place,  and  looked 
Earnestly  on  me — She  had  been  asleep  ! 


FUGITIVE  POETRY.  49 


ISABEL. 

THEY  said  that  I  was  strange.     I  could  not  bear 

Confinement,  and  I  lov'd  to  feel  the  wind 

Blowing  upon  my  forehead,  and  when  morn 

Came  like  an  inspiration  from  the  East, 

And  the  cool  earth,  awaking  like  a  star 

In  a  new  element,  sent  out  its  voice, 

And  tempted  me  with  music,  and  the  breath 

Of  a  delicious  perfume,  and  the  dye 

Of  the  rich  forests  and  the  pastures  green, 

To  come  out  and  be  glad — I  would  not  stay 

To  bind  my  gushing  spirit  with  a  book. 

Fourteen  bright  summers — and  my  heart  had  grown 
Impatient  in  its  loneliness,  and  yearn'd 
For  something  that  was  like  itself,  to  love. 
She  came — the  stately  Isabel — as  proud 
And  beautiful,  and  gentle  as  my  dream  ; 
And  with  my  wealth  of  feeling,  lov'd  I  her. 
Older  by  years,  and  wiser  of  the  world, 
She  was  in  thought  my  equal,  and  we  rang'd 
The  pleasant  wood  together,  and  sat  down 
Impassion'd  with  the  same  delicious  sweep 
Of  water,  and  I  pour'd  into  her  ear 
My  passion  and  my  hoarded  thoughts  like  one, 
Till  I  forgot  that  there  was  any  world 
But  Isabel  and  nature.     She  was  pleas'd 
And  flatter'd  with  my  wild  and  earnest  love, 
7 


50  FUGITIVE  POETRY. 

And  suffer'd  my  delirious  words  to  burn 
Upon  my  lip  unchided.     It  was  new 
To  be  so  worshipped  like  a  deity 
By  a  pure  heart  from  nature,  and  she  gave 
Her  tenderness  its  way,  and  when  I  kiss'd 
Her  fingers  till  I  thought  I  was  in  Heaven, 
She  gaz'd  upon  me  silently,  and  wept. 

***** 
I  have  seen  eighteen  summers — and  the  child 
Of  stately  Isabel  hath  learn'd  to  come 
And  win  me  from  my  sadness.     I  have  school'd 
My  feelings  to  affection  for  that  child, 
And  I  can  see  his  father  fondle  him, 
And  give  him  to  his  mother  with  a  kiss 
Upon  her  holy  forehead — and  be  calm ! 


FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


51 


MERE   ACCIDENT. 


IT  was  a  shady  nook  that  I  had  found 
Deep  in  the  greenwood.     A  delicious  stream 
Ran  softly  by  it  on  a  bed  of  grass, 
And  to  the  border  leant  a  sloping  bank 
Of  moss  as  delicate  as  Tempe  e'er 
Spread  for  the  sleep  of  lo.     Overhead 
The  spreading  larch  was  woven  with  the  fir, 
And  as  the  summer  wind  stole  listlessly, 
And  dallied  with  the  tree  tops,  they  would  part 
And  let  in  sprinklings  of  the  sunny  light, 
Studding  the  moss  like  silver  ;  and  again 
Returning  to  their  places,  there  would  come 
A  murmur  from  the  touched  and  stirring  leaves, 
That  like  a  far-off  instrument,  beguiled 
Your  mood  into  the  idleness  of  sleep. 

Here  did  I  win  thee,  Viola !     We  came — 

Thou  knowest  how  carelessly — and  never  thought 

Love  lived  in  such  a  wilderness  ;  and  thou — 

I  had  a  cousin's  kindness  for  thy  lip, 

And  in  the  meshes  of  thy  chesnut  hair 

I  loved  to  hide  my  fingers — that  was  all ! 

And  when  I  saw  thy  figure  on  the  grass, 

And  thy  straw  bonnet  flung  aside,  I  thought 

A  fairy  would  be  pretty,  painted  so 

Upon  a  ground  of  green — but  that  was  all ! 


52  FUGITIVE  POETRY. 

And  when  thou  playfully  wouldst  bathe  thy  foot, 

And  the  clear  water  of  the  stream  ran  off 

And  left  the  white  skin  polished,  why,  I  thought 

It  looked  like  ivory — but  that  was  all  ! 

And  when  thou  wouldst  be  serious,  and  I 

Was  serious  too,  and  thy  mere  fairy's  hand 

Lay  carelessly  in  mine,  and  just  for  thought 

I  mused  upon  thy  innocence  and  gaz'd 

Upon  the  pure  transparence  of  thy  brow — 

I  pressed  thy  fingers  half  unconsciously, 

And  fell  in  love.     Was  that  all,  Viola? 


FUGITIVE  POETRY.  53 


THE  EARL'S   MINSTREL. 

I  HAD  a  passion  when  I  was  a  child 

For  a  most  pleasant  idleness.     In  June, 

When  the  thick  masses  of  the  leaves  were  stirr'd 

With  a  just  audible  murmur,  and  the  streams 

Fainted  in  their  cool  places  to  a  low 

Unnotic'd  tinkle,  and  the  reapers  hung 

Their  sickles  in  the  trees  and  went  to  sleep, 

Then  might  you  find  me  in  an  antique  chair 

Cushion'd  with  cunning  luxury,  which  stood 

In  the  old  study  corner,  by  a  nook 

Crowded  with  volumes  of  the  old  romance ; 

And  there,  the  long  and  quiet  summer  day, 

Lay  I  with  half  clos'd  eyelids,  turning  o'er 

Leaf  after  leaf,  until  the  twilight  blurr'd 

Their  singular  and  time-stain' d  characters. 

'Twas  a  forgetful  lore,  and  it  is  blent 

With  dreams  that  in  my  fitful  slumber  came, 

And  is  remember'd  faintly.     But  to-day 

With  the  strange  waywardness  of  human  thought, 

A  story  has  come  back  to  me  which  I 

Had  long  forgotten,  and  I  tell  it  now 

Because  it  hath  a  savour  that  I  find 

But  seldom  in  the  temper  of  the  world. 

Angelo  turn'd  away.     He  was  a  poor 
Unhonor'd  minstrel,  and  he  might  not  breathe 


54  FUGITIVE  POETRY. 

Love  to  the  daughter  of  an  Earl.     She  rais'd 
Proudly  her  beautiful  head,  and  shook  away 
From  her  clear  temples  the  luxuriant  hair, 
And  told  him  it  would  ever  please  her  well 
To  listen  to  his  minstrelsy,  but  love 
Was  for  a  loftier  lip— and  then  the  tear 
Stole  to  her  flashing  eye,  for  as  she  spoke 
There  rose  up  a  remembrance  of  his  keen, 
Unstooping  spirit,  and  his  noble  heart 
Given  her  like  a  sacrifice,  and  she  held 
Her  hand  for  him  to  kiss,  and  said,  "  Farewell ! 
Think  of  me,  Angelo !"  and  so  pass'd  on. 

The  color  to  his  forehead  mounted  high, 

And  his  thin  lip  curl'd  haughtily,  and  then 

As  if  his  mood  had  chang'd,  he  bow'd  his  head 

Low  on  his  bosom,  and  remain'd  awhile 

Lost  in  his  bitter  thoughts — and  then  again 

He  lifted  to  its  height  his  slender  form, 

And  his  moist  eye  grew  clear,  and  his  hand  pass'd 

Rapidly  o'er  his  instrument  while  thus 

He  gave  his  spirit  voice  : — 

It  did  not  need  that  alter'd  look, 

Nor  that  uplifted  brow — 
I  had  riot  ask'd  thy  haughty  love, 

Were  I  as  proud  as  now. 
My  love  was  like  a  beating  heart — 

Unbidden  and  unstayed  ; 
And  had  I  known  bat  half  its  power, 

It  had  not  been  betray'd. 


FUGITIVE  POETRY.  55 

I  did  not  seek  thy  titled  hand ; 

I  thought  not  of  thy  name  ; 
I  only  granted  utterance 

To  one  wild  thought  of  flame. 
I  did  not  dream  thou  couldst  be  mine, 

Or  I  a  thought  to  thee — 
I  only  knew  my  lip  must  let 

Some  burning  thought  go  free. 

I  lov'd  thee  for  thy  high  born  grace, 

Thy  deep  and  lustrous  eye, 
For  the  sweet  meaning  of  thy  brow, 

And  for  thy  bearing  high ; 
I  lov'd  thee  for  thy  stainless  truth, 

Thy  thirst  for  higher  things  ; 
For  all  that  to  our  common  lot 

A  better  temper  brings — 

And  are  they  not  all  thine  ?  still  thine  ? 

Is  not  thy  heart  as  true  1 
Holds  not  thy  step  its  noble  grace — 

Thy  cheek  its  dainty  hue  ? 
And  have  I  not  an  ear  to  hear — 

A  cloudless  eye  to  see — 
And  a  thirst  for  beautiful  human  thought, 

That  first  was  stirr'd  with  thee  ? 

Then  why  should  I  turn  from  thee  now  ? 

Why  should  not  I  love  on — 
Dreaming  of  thee  by  night,  by  day, 

As  I  have  ever  done  ? 
My  service  shall  be  still  as  leal, 

My  love  as  quenchless  burn — 


56  FUGITIVE  POETRY. 

It  shames  me  of  my  selfish  thought 
That  dream'd  of  a  return  ! 

He  married  her !     Perhaps  it  spoils  the  tale — 
But  she  had  listen'd  to  his  song,  unseen, 
And  kept  it  in  her  heart,  and,  by  and  by, 
When  Angelo  did  service  for  his  king, 
And  was  prefer'd  to  honor,  she  betray'd 
Her  secret  in  some  delicate  way  that  I 
Do  not  remember,  and  so  ends  the  tale. 


FUGITIVE  POETRY.  57 


THE  SERENADE. 


INNOCENT  dreams  be  thine  !     The  silver  night 
Is  a  fit  curtain  for  thy  lovely  sleep. 
The  stars  keep  watch  above  thee,  and  the  moon 
Sits  like  a  brooding  spirit  up  in  Heaven, 
Ruling  the  night's  deep  influences,  and  life 
Hath  a  hushed  pulse,  and  the  suspended  leaves 
Sleep  with  their  whisperings  as  if  the  dew 
Were  a  soft  finger  on  the  lip  of  sound. 
Innocent  dreams  be  thine  !   thy  heart  sends  up 
Its  thoughts  of  purity  like  pearly  bells 
Rising  in  crystal  fountains,  and  the  sin 
That  thou  hast  seen  by  day,  will,  like  a  shade, 
Pass  from  thy  memory,  as  if  the  pure 
Had  an  unconscious  ministry  by  night. 

Midnight — and  now  for  music  !     Would  I  were 
A  sound  that  I  might  steal  upon  thy  dreams, 
And,  like  the  breathing  of  my  flute,  distil 
Sweetly  upon  thy  senses.     Softly,  boy  ! 
Breathe  the  low  cadences  as  if  the  words 
Fainted  upon  thy  lip — I  would  not  break 
Her  slumber  quite — but  only,  as  she  dreams, 
Witch  the  lull'd  sense  till  she  believes  she  hears 
Celestial  melody  : — 


8 


58  FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


SONG. 

"  Sleep,  like  a  lover,  woo  thee, 

Isabel ! 
And  golden  dreams  come  to  thee, 

Like  a  spell 

By  some  sweet  angel  drawn  ! 
Noiseless  hands  shall  seal  thy  slumber, 
Setting  stars  its  moments  number, 

So,  sleep  thou  on  ! 

The  night  above  thee  broodeth, 

Hushed  and  deep  ; 
But  no  dark  thought  intrudeth 

On  the  sleep 

Which  folds  thy  senses  now. 
Gentle  spirits  float  around  thee, 
Gentle  rest  hath  softly  bound  thee, 

For  pure  art  thou ! 

And  now  thy  spirit  fleeth 

On  rare  wings, 
And  fancy's  vision  seeth 

Holy  things 
In  its  high  atmosphere. 
Music  strange  thy  sense  unsealeth, 
And  a  voice  to  thee  revealeth 

What  angels  hear. 

Thou'lt  wake  when  morning  breaketh, 

Pure  and  calm  ; 
As  one  who  mourns,  awaketh 

When  the  balm 


FUGITIVE  POETRY. 

Of  peace  hath  on  him  fell. 
Purer  thoughts  shall  stir  within  thee, 
Softer  cords  to  virtue  win  thee — 
Farewell !     Farewell !" 


60 


FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


HERO. 


Claudio.    Know  you  any  Hero  ? 

Hero.    None  my  lord  !  As  You  Like  it. 


GENTLE  and  modest  Hero  !     I  can  see 
Her  delicate  figure,  and  her  soft  blue  eye, 
Like  a  warm  vision — lovely  as  she  stood, 
Veiled  in  the  presence  of  young  Claudio. 
Modesty  bows  her  head,  and  that  young  heart 
That  would  endure  all  suffering  for  the  love 
It  hideth,  is  as  tremulous  as  the  leaf 
Forsaken  of  the  Summer.     She  hath  flung 
Her  all  upon  the  venture  of  her  vow, 
And  in  her  trust  leans  meekly,  like  a  flower 
By  the  still  river  tempted  from  its  stem, 
And  on  its  bosom  floating. 

Once  again 

I  see  her,  and  she  standeth  in  her  pride, 
With  her  soft  eye  enkindled,  and  her  lip 
Curled  with  its  sweet  resentment,  like  a  line 
Of  lifeless  coral.      She  hath  heard  the  voice 
That  was  her  music  utter  it,  and  still 
To  her  affection  faithful,  she  hath  turned 
And  questioned  in  her  innocent  unbelief, 
"  Is  my  lord  well,  that  he  should  speak  so  wide  V 
How  did  they  look  upon  that  open  brow, 
And  not  read  purity  ?     Alas  for  truth  ! 
It  hath  so  many  counterfeits.     The  words, 


FUGITIVE   POETRY.  61 

That  to  a  child  were  written  legibly, 
Are  by  the  wise  mistaken,  and  when  light 
Hath  made  the  brow  transparent,  and  the  face 
Is  like  an  angel's — virtue  is  so  fair — 
They  read  it  like  an  over-blotted  leaf, 
And  break  the  heart  that  wrote  it. 


62  FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


APRIL. 


A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone, 

Half  hidden  from  the  eye, 

Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one, 

Is  shining  in  the  sky.  Wordsworth . 


I  HAVE  found  violets.     April  hath  come  on, 
And  the  cool  winds  feel  softer,  and  the  rain 
Falls  in  the  beaded  drops  of  summer  time. 
You  may  hear  birds  at  morning,  and  at  eve 
The  tame  dove  lingers  till  the  twilight  falls, 
Cooing  upon  the  eaves,  and  drawing  in 
His  beautiful  bright  neck,  and  from  the  hills, 
A  murmur  like  the  hoarseness  of  the  sea 
Tells  the  release  of  waters,  and  the  earth 
Sends  up  a  pleasant  smell,  and  the  dry  leaves 
Are  lifted  by  the  grass — and  so  I  know 
That  Nature,  with  her  delicate  ear,  hath  heard 
The  dropping  of  the  velvet  foot  of  Spring. 
Smell  of  my  violets  !     I  found  them  where 
The  liquid  South  stole  o'er  them,  on  a  bank 
That  lean'd  to  running  water.     There's  to  me 
A  daintiness  about  these  early  flowers 
That  touches  me  like  poetry.     They  blow 
With  such  a  simple  loveliness  among 
The  common  herbs  of  pasture,  and  breathe  out 
Their  lives  so  unobtrusively,  like  hearts 
Whose  beatings  are  too  gentle  for  the  world. 


FUGITIVE   POETRY. 

I  love  to  go  in  the  capricious  days 

Of  April  and  hunt  violets  ;  when  the  rain 

Is  in  the  blue  cups  trembling,  and  they  nod 

So  gracefully  to  the  kisses  of  the  wind. 

It  may  be  deem'd  unmanly,  but  the  wise 

Read  nature  like  the  manuscript  of  heaven 

And  call  the  flowers  its  poetry.     Go  out ! 

Ye  spirits  of  habitual  unrest, 

And  read  it  when  the  "  fever  of  the  world" 

Hath  made  your  hearts  impatient,  and,  if  life 

Hath  yet  one  spring  unpoison'd,  it  will  be 

Like  a  beguiling  music  to  its  flow, 

And  you  will  no  more  wonder  that  I  love 

To  hunt  for  violets  in  the  April  time. 


64 


FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


TO  A  BRIDE. 

Pass  thou  on  !  for  the  vow  is  said 

That  is  never  broken  ; 
The  hand  of  blessing  hath,  trembling,  laid 
On  snowy  forehead  and  simple  braid, 

And  the  word  is  spoken 
By  lips  that  never  their  words  betray'd. 

Pass  thou  on  !  for  thy  human  all 

Is  richly  given, 

And  the  voice  that  claim'd  its  holy  thrall 
Must  be  sweeter  for  life  than  music's  fall, 

And,  this  side  Heaven, 
Thy  lip  may  never  that  trust  recal. 

Pass  thou  on  !  yet  many  an  eye 

Will  droop  and  glisten  ; 
And  the  hushing  heart  in  vain  will  try 
To  still  its  pulse  as  thy  step  goes  by 

And  we  "  vainly  listen 
For  thy  voice  of  witching  melody." 

Pass  thou  on  !  yet  a  sister's  tone 

In  its  sweetness  lingers, 
Like  some  twin  echo  sent  back  alone, 
Or  the  bird's  soft  note  when  its  mate  hath  flown, 

And  a  sister's  ringers 
Will  again  o'er  the  thrilling  harp  be  thrown. 


FUGITIVE    POETRY.  65 

And  our  eyes  will  rest  on  their  foreheads  fair, 

And  our  hearts  awaken 
Whenever  we  come  where  their  voices  are — 
But  oh,  we  shall  think  how  musical  were, 

Ere  of  thee  forsaken, 
The  mingled  voices  we  listed  there. 

Pass  on  !  there  is  not  of  our  blessings  one 

That  may  not  perish — 
Like  visiting  angels  whose  errand  is  done, 
They  are  never  at  rest  till  their  home  is  won, 

And  we  may  not  cherish 
The  beautiful  gift  of  thy  light — Pass  on  ! 


66  FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


TWENTY-TWO. 

I'M  twenty-two — I'm  twenty-two — 

They  gaily  give  me  joy, 
As  if  I  should  be  glad  to  hear 

That  I  was  less  a  boy. 
They  do  not  know  how  carelessly 

Their  words  have  given  pain, 
To  one  whose  heart  would  leap  to  be 

A  happy  boy  again. 

I  had  a  light  and  careless  heart 

When  this  brief  year  began, 
And  then  I  pray'd  that  I  might  be 

A  grave  and  perfect  man. 
The  world  was  like  a  blessed  dream 

Of  joyous  coming  years — 
I  did  not  know  its  manliness 

Was  but  to  wake  in  tears. 

A  change  has  on  my  spirit  come, 

I  am  forever  sad  ; 
The  light  has  all  departed  now 

My  early  feelings  had  ; 
I  used  to  love  the  morning  grey, 

The  twilight's  quiet  deep, 
But  now  like  shadows  on  the  sea, 

Upon  my  thoughts  they  creep. 

And  love  was  like  a  holy  star, 
When  this  brief  year  was  young, 


FUGITIVE  POETRY. 

And  my  whole  worship  of  the  sky 
On  one  sweet  ray  was  flung ; 

But  worldly  things  have  come  between, 
And  shut  it  from  my  sight, 

And  though  the  star  shines  purely  yet, 
I  mourn  its  hidden  light. 

And  fame  !  I  bent  to  it  the  knee, 

And  bow'd  to  it  my  brow, 
And  it  is  like  a  coal  upon 

My  living  spirit  now — 
But  when  I  pray'd  for  burning  fire 

To  touch  the  soul  I  bow'd, 
I  did  not  know  the  lightning  flash 

Would  come  in  such  a  cloud. 

Ye  give  me  joy !     Is  it  because 

Another  year  has  fled  1 — 
That  I  am  farther  from  my  youth, 

And  nearer  to  the  dead  ? 
Is  it  because  my  cares  have  come  1 — 

My  happy  boyhood  o'er  1 — 
Because  the  visions  I  have  lov'd 

Will  visit  me  no  more  ? 

Oh,  tell  me  not  that  ye  are  glad ! 

I  cannot  smile  it  back  ; 
I've  found  no  flower,  and  seen  no  light 

On  manhood's  weary  track. 
My  love  is  deep — ambition  deep — 

And  heart  and  mind  will  on — 
But  love  is  fainting  by  the  way, 

And  fame  consumes  ere  won. 


68 


FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


ON  A  PICTURE  OF  CHILDREN  PLAYING. 

BY    FISHER. 

I  LOVE  to  look  on  a  scene  like  this, 

Of  wild  and  careless  play, 
And  persuade  myself  that  I  am  not  old 

And  my  locks  are  not  yet  gray; 
For  it  stirs  the  blood  in  old  man's  heart, 

And  makes  his  pulses  fly, 
To  catch  the  thrill  of  a  happy  voice, 

And  the  light  of  a  pleasant  eye. 

I  have  walked  the  world  for  fourscore  years, 

And  they  say  that  I  am  old ; 
That  my  heart  is  ripe  for  the  reaper,  Death, 

And  my  years  are  well  nigh  told. 
It  is  very  true — it  is  very  true — 

I'm  old,  and  '  I  bide  my  time' — 
But  my  heart  will  leap  at  a  scene  like  this, 

And  I  half  renew  my  prime. 

Play  on  !  play  on  !  I  am  with  you  there, 

In  the  midst  of  your  merry  ring  ; 
I  can  feel  the  thrill  of  the  daring  jump, 

And  the  rush  of  the  breathless  swing. 
I  hide  with  you  in  the  fragrant  hay, 

And  I  whoop  the  smothered  call, 
And  my  feet  slip  up  on  the  seedy  floor, 

And  I  care  not  for  the  fall. 


FUGITIVE  POETRY. 

I  am  willing  to  die  when  my  time  shall  come, 

And  I.  shall  be  glad  to  go  ; 
For  the  world,  at  best,  is  a  weary  place, 

And  my  pulse  is  getting  low  ; 
But  the  grave  is  dark,  and  the  heart  will  fail 

In  treading  its  gloomy  way  ; 
And  it  wiles  my  heart  from  its  dreariness, 

To  see  the  young  so  gay. 


69 


70  FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


TO  A  SLEEPING  BOY. 

SLEEP  on  !  Sleep  on  !  beguiling 

The  hours  with  happy  rest. 
Sleep  ! — by  that  dreamy  smiling, 

I  know  that  thou  art  blest. 
Thy  mother  over  thee  hath  leant 

To  guard  thee  from  annoy, 
And  the  angel  of  the  innocent 

Was  in  that  dream,  my  boy  ! 

The  tinting  of  the  summer  rose 

Is  on  that  pillowed  cheek, 
And  the  quietness  of  summer  thought 

Has  made  thy  forehead  meek. 
And  yet  that  little  ample  brow, 

And  arching  lip,  are  fraught 
With  pledges  of  high  manliness, 

And  promises  of  thought. 

Thy  polished  limbs  are  rounded  out 

As  is  the  Autumn  fruit, 
And  full  and  reedy  is  the  voice 

That  slumber  hath  made  mute. 
And,  looking  on  thy  perfect  form — 

Hearing  thy  pleasant  tone — 
I  almost  weep  for  joy,  my  son, 

To  know  thee  for  my  own. 


FUGITIVE  POETRY.  71 

Sleep  on  !    thine  eye  seems  looking  thro* 

The  half  transparent  lid, 
As  if  its  free  and  radiant  glance 

Impatiently  were  hid ; 
But  ever  as  I  kneel  to  pray, 

And  in  my  fulness  weep, 
I  thank  the  Giver  of  my  child 

For  that  pure  gift  of  sleep — 
I  half  believe  they  take  thee,  then, 
Back  to  a  better  world  again. 

And  so,  sleep  on  !     If  thou  hast  worn 

An  angel's  shining  wing, 
The  watch  that  I  have  loved  to  keep 

Hath  been  a  blessed  thing. 
And  if  thy  spirit  hath  been  here, 

With  spotless  thoughts  alone — 
A  mother's  silent  ministry 

Is  still  a  holy  one  ; 
And  I  will  pray  that  there  may  be 
A  shining  wing  in  wait  for  thee. 


72  FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


SONNET.    WINTER. 

THE  frozen  ground  looks  gray.     'Twill  shut  the  snow 

Out  from  its  bosom,  and  the  flakes  will  fall 
Softly  and  lie  upon  it.  The  hushed  flow 

Of  the  ice-covered  waters,  and  the  call 
Of  the  cold  driver  to  his  oxen  slow, 

And  the  complaining  of  the  gust,  are  all 
That  I  can  hear  of  music — would  that  I 
With  the  green  summer  like  a  leaf  might  die  ? 
So  will  a  man  grow  gray,  and  on  his  head 

The  snow  of  years  lie  visibly,  and  so 
Will  come  a  frost  when  his  green  years  have  fled, 

And  his  chilled  pulses  sluggishly  will  flow, 
And  his  deep  voice  be  shaken — would  that  I 
In  the  green  summer  of  my  youth  might  die  ! 


FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


SONNET. 

STORM  had  been  on  the  hills.     The  day  had  worn 

As  if  a  sleep  upon  the  hours  had  crept  ; 

And  the  dark  clouds  that  gather' d  at  the  morn 

In  dull,  impenetrable  masses  slept, 

And  the  wept  leaves  hung  droopingly,  and  all 

Was  like  the  mournful  aspect  of  a  pall. 

Suddenly  on  the  horizon's  edge,  a  blue 

And  delicate  line,  as  of  a  pencil,  lay, 

And,  as  it  wider  and  intenser  grew, 

The  darkness  removed  silently  away, 

And,  with  the  splendor  of  a  God,  broke  through 

The  perfect  glory  of  departing  day — 

So,  when  his  stormy  pilgrimage  is  o'er, 

Will  light  upon  the  dying  Christian  pour. 


10 


FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


SONNET. 

ELEGANCE  floats  about  thee  like  a  dress, 

Melting  the  airy  motion  of  thy  form 
Into  one  swaying  grace,  and  loveliness, 

Like  a  rich  tint  that  makes  a  picture  warm, 
Is  lurking  in  the  chesnut  of  thy  tress, 

Enriching  it,  as  moonlight  after  storm 
Mingles  dark  shadows  into  gentleness. 

A  beauty  that  bewilders  like  a  spell 
Reigns  in  thine  eye's  clear  hazel,  and  thy  brow 

So  pure  in  vein'd  transparency  doth  tell 
How  spiritually  beautiful  art  thou — 

A  temple  where  angelic  love  might  dwell. 
Life  in  thy  presence  were  a  thing  to  keep, 
Like  a  gay  dreamer  clinging  to  his  sleep. 


FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


SONNET. 

BEAUTIFUL  ROBIN  !  with  thy  feathers  red 

Contrasting  sweetly  with  the  soft  green  tree, 
Making  thy  little  flights  as  thou  art  led 

By  things  that  tempt  a  simple  one  like  thee — 
I  would  that  thou  couldst  warble  me  to  tears 
As  lightly  as  the  birds  of  other  years. 

Idly  to  lie  beneath  an  April  sun, 
Pressing  the  perfume  from  the  tender  grass ; 

To  watch  a  joyous  rivulet  leap  on 
With  the  clear  tinkle  of  a  music  glass, 
And  as  I  saw  the  early  robin  pass, 

To  hear  him  thro'  his  little  compass  run — 
Hath  been  a  joy  that  I  shall  no  more  know 
Before  I  to  my  better  portion  go. 


76  FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


SONNET. 

EXQUISITE  Laura  !  with  thy  pouting  lip, 

And  the  arch  smile  that  makes  me  constant  so — 
Tempting  me  still  like  a  dull  bee  to  sip 

The  flower  I  should  have  left  so  long  ago — 
Beautiful  Laura  !  who  art  just  so  fair 

That  I  can  think  thee  lovely  when  alone, 
And  still  art  not  so  wonderfully  rare 

That  I  could  never  find  a  prettier  one — 
Spirited  Laura !  laughing,  weeping,  crying 

In  the  same  breath,  and  gravest  with  the  gay — 
So  wild,  that  Cupid  ever  shoots  thee  flying, 

And  knows  his  archery  is  thrown  away — 
Inconstant  as  I  am,  I  cannot  yet 
Break  thy  sweet  fetter,  exquisite  coquette  ! 


FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


77 


SONNET. 

THERE  was  a  beautiful  spirit  in  her  air, 

As  of  a  fay  at  revel.     Hidden  springs, 
Too  delicate  for  knowledge,  should  be  there, 

Moving  her  gently  like  invisible  wings  ; 
And  then  her  lip  out-blushing  the  red  fruit 

That  bursts  with  ripeness  in  the  Autumn  time, 
And  the  arch  eye  you  would  not  swear  was  mute, 

And  the  clear  cheek,  as  of  a  purer  clime, 
And  the  low  tone,  soft  as  a  pleasant  flute 

Sent  over  water  with  the  vesper  chime ; 
And  then  her  forehead  with  its  loose,  dark  curl, 

And  the  bewildering  smile  that  made  her  mouth 

Like  a  torn  rose-leaf  moistened  of  the  South — 
She  has  an  angel's  gifts — the  radiant  girl ! 


FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


ANDRE'S  REQUEST. 

IT  is  not  the  fear  of  death 

That  damps  my  brow ; 
It  is  not  for  another  breath 

I  ask  thee  now  ; 
I  can  die  with  a  lip  unstirr'd 

And  a  quiet  heart — 
Let  but  this  prayer  be  heard 

Ere  I  depart. 

I  can  give  up  my  mother's  look- 

My  sister's  kiss ; 
I  can  think  of  love — yet  brook 

A  death  like  this  ! 
I  can  give  up  the  young  fame 

I  burn'd  to  win — 
All — but  the  spotless  name 

I  glory  in  ! 

Thine  is  the  power  to  give, 

Thine  to  deny, 
Joy  for  the  hour  I  live — 

Calmness  to  die. 
By  all  the  brave  should  cherish, 

By  my  dying  breath, 
I  ask  that  I  may  perish 

With  a  soldier's  death  ! 


FUGITIVE  POETRY.  79 


DISCRIMINATION. 

I  USED  to  love  a  radiant  girl — 

Her  lips  were  like  a  rose  leaf  torn ; 

Her  heart  was  as  free  as  a  floating  carl, 
Or  a  breeze  at  morn; 

Her  step  as  light  as  a  Peri's  daughter, 

And  her  eye  as  soft  as  gliding  water. 

Witching  thoughts  like  things  half  hid 
Lurk'd  beneath  her  silken  lashes, 

And  a  modest  droop  of  the  veined  lid 
Oft  hid  their  flashes — 

But  to  me  the  charm  was  more  complete 

As  the  blush  stole  up  its  fringe  to  meet. 

Paint  me  love  as  a  honey  bee ! 

Rosy  mouths  are  things  to  sip ; 
Nothing  was  ever  so  sweet  to  me 

As  Marion's  lip — 

Till  I  learned  that  a  deeper  magic  lies 
In  kissing  the  lids  of  her  closed  eyes. 

Her  sweet  brow  I  seldom  touch, 

Save  to  part  her  raven  hair  ; 
Her  bright  cheek  I  gaze  on  much, 

Her  white  hand  is  fair  ; 
But  none  of  these — I've  tried  them  all — 
Is  like  kissing  her  eyes  as  the  lashes  fall. 


80  FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


THE   SOLITARY. 

Alone !  alone  !     How  drear  it  is 

Always  to  be  alone  ! 
In  such  a  depth  of  wilderness, 

The  only  thinking  one  ! 
The  waters  in  their  path  rejoice, 

The  trees  together  sleep — 
But  I  have  not  one  silver  voice 

Upon  my  ear  to  creep  ! 

The  sun  upon  the  silent  hills 

His  mesh  of  beauty  weaves, 
There's  music  in  the  laughing  rills 

And  in  the  whispering  leaves. 
The  red  deer  like  the  breezes  fly 

To  meet  the  bounding  roe, 
But  I  have  not  a  human  sigh 

To  cheer  me  as  I  go. 

I've  hated  men— I  hate  them  now- 
But,  since  they  are  not  here, 

I  thirst  for  the  familiar  brow- 
Thirst  for  the  stealing  tear. 

And  I  should  love  to  see  the  one, 
And  feel  the  other  creep, 

And  then  again  I'd  be  alone 
Amid  the  forest  deep. 


FUGITIVE  POETRY.  81 


I  thought  that  I  should  love  my  hound, 

And  hear  my  cracking  gun 
Till  I  forgot  the  thrilling  sound 

Of  voices — one  by  one. 
I  thought  that  in  the  leafy  hush 

Of  nature,  they  would  die  ; 
But,  as  the  hindered  waters  rush, 

Resisted  feelings  fly 

I'm  weary  of  my  lonely  hut 

And  of  its  blasted  tree, 
The  very  lake  is  like  my  lot, 

So  silent  constantly. 
I've  lived  amid  the  forest  gloom 

Until  I  almost  fear — 
When  will  the  thrilling  voices  come 

My  spirit  thirsts  to  hear  ? 


11 


FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MISS  FANNY  V.  APTHORP. 

'Tis  difficult  to  feel  that  she  is  dead. 

Her  presence,  like  the  shadow  of  a  wing 

That  is  just  given  to  the  upward  sky, 

Lingers  upon  us.     We  can  hear  her  voice, 

And  for  her  step  we  listen,  and  the  eye 

Looks  for  her  wonted  coming  with  a  strange, 

Forgetful  earnestness.     We  cannot  feel 

That  she  will  no  more  come — that  from  her  cheek 

The  delicate  flush  has  faded,  and  the  light 

Dead  in  her  soft  dark  eye,  and  on  her  lip, 

That  was  so  exquisitely  pure,  the  dew 

Of  the  damp  grave  has  fallen  !     Who,  so  lov'd, 

Is  left  among  the  living  ?     Who  hath  walk'd 

The  world  with  such  a  winning  loveliness, 

And  on  its  bright,  brief  journey,  gather'd  up 

Such  treasures  of  affection  ?     She  was  lov'd 

Only  as  idols  are.     She  was  the  pride 

Of  her  familiar  sphere — the  daily  joy 

Of  all  who  on  her  gracefulness  might  gaze, 

And,  in  the  light  and  music  of  her  way, 

Have  a  companion's  portion.     Who  could  feel, 

While  looking  upon  beauty  such  as  hers, 

That  it  would  ever  perish  !     It  is  like 

The  melting  of  a  star  into  the  sky 

While  you  are  gazing  on  it,  or  a  dream 

In  its  most  ravishing  sweetness  rudely  broken. 


FUGITIVE  POETRY.  83 


A  PORTRAIT. 

SHE  was  not  very  beautiful,  if  it  be  beauty's  test 
To  match  a  classic  model  when  perfectly  at  rest ; 
And  she  did  not  look  bewitchingly,  if  witchery  it  be, 
To  have  a  forehead  and  a  lip  transparent  as  the  sea. 

The  fashion  of  her  gracefulness  was  not  a  follow'd  rule, 
And  her  effervescent  sprightliness  was  never  learnt  at  school ; 
And  her  words  were  all  peculiar,  like  the  fairy's  who  'spoke  pearls;' 
And  her  tone  was  ever  sweetest  midst  the  cadences  of  girls. 

Said  I  she  was  not  beautiful  ?     Her  eyes  upon  your  sight 
Broke  with  the  lambent  purity  of  planetary  light, 
And  an  intellectual  beauty,  like  a  light  within  a  vase, 
Touched  every  line  with  glory  of  her  animated  face. 

Her  mind  with  sweets  was  laden,  like  a  morning  breath  in  June, 
And  her  thoughts  awoke  in  harmony,  like  dreamings  of  a  tune, 
And  you  heard  her  words  like  voices  that  o'er  the  waters  creep, 
Or  like  a  serenader's  lute  that  mingles  with  your  sleep. 

She  had  an  earnest  intellect — a  perfect  thirst  of  mind, 
And  a  heart  by  elevated  thoughts  and  poetry  refin'd, 
And  she  saw  a  subtle  tint  or  shade  with  every  careless  look, 
And  the  hidden  links  of  nature  were  familiar  as  a  book. 

She's  made  of  those  rare  elements  that  now  and  then  appear, 
As  if  remov'd  by  accident  unto  a  lesser  sphere, 
Forever  reaching  up,  and  on,  to  life's  sublimer  things, 
As  if  they  had  been  used  to  track  the  universe  with  wings. 


84  FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


MAY. 

OH  the  merry  May  has  pleasant  hours, 

And  dreamily  they  glide, 
As  if  they  floated  like  the  leaves 

Upon  a  silver  tide. 
The  trees  are  full  of  crimson  buds, 

And  the  woods  are  full  of  birds, 
And  the  waters  flow  to  music 

Like  a  tune  with  pleasant  words. 

The  verdure  of  the  meadow-land 

Is  creeping  to  the  hills, 
The  sweet,  blue-bosom'd  violets 

Are  blowing  by  the  rills  ; 
The  lilac  has  a  load  of  balm 

For  every  wind  that  stirs, 
And  the  larch  stands  green  and  beautiful 

Amid  the  sombre  firs. 

There's  perfume  upon  every  wind — 

Music  in  every  tree — 
Dews  for  the  moisture-loving  flowers — 

Sweets  for  the  sucking  bee  ; 
The  sick  come  forth  for  the  healing  South, 

The  young  are  gathering  flowers  ; 
And  life  is  a  tale  of  poetry, 

That  is  told  by  golden  hours. 


FUGITIVE  POETRY.  85 


If  'tis  not  a  true  philosophy, 

That  the  spirit  when  set  free 
Still  lingers  about  its  olden  home, 

In  the  flower  and  the  tree, 
It  is  very  strange  that  our  pulses  thrill 

At  the  tint  of  a  voiceless  thing, 
And  our  hearts  yearn  so  with  tenderness 

In  the  beautiful  time  of  Spring. 


86  FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


ON  SEEING  THROUGH  A  DISTANT  :WINDOW  A  BELLE 
COMPLETING  HER  TOILET  FOR  A  BALL. 

'Tis  well — 'tis  well — that  clustering  shade 
Is  on  thy  forehead  sweetly  laid  ; 
And  that  light  curl  that  slumbers  by 
Makes  deeper  yet  thy  depth  of  eye  ; 
And  that  white  rose  that  decks  thy  hair 
Just  wins  the  eye  to  linger  there, 
Yet  makes  it  not  to  note  the  less 
The  beauty  of  that  raven  tress. 

Thy  coral  necklace  ? — ear-rings  too  ? 
Nay — nay — not  them — no  darker  hue 
Than  thy  white  bosom  be  to-night 
On  that  fair  neck  the  bar  of  light, 
Or  hide  the  veins  that  faintly  glow 
And  wander  in  its  living  snow. 

What ! — yet  another  ?  can  it  be 
That  neck  needs  ornament  to  thee  1 — 
Yet  not  thy  jewels  ! — they  are  bright, 
But  that  dark  eye  has  softer  light, 
And  tho'  each  gem  had  been  a  star, 
Thy  simple  self  were  lovelier  far — 
Yet  stay  ! — that  string  of  matchless  pearl  ? 
Nay — wear  it — wear  it — radiant  girl  ! 
For  ocean's  best  of  pure  and  white 
Should  only  be  thy  foil  to  night. 


FUGITIVE  POETRY.  8? 


Aye,  turn  thee  round  !  'tis  lovely  all — 
Thou'lt  have  no  peer  at  that  gay  ball  ! 
And  that  proud  toss  ! — it  makes  thee  smile 
To  see  how  deep  is  thine  own  wile ; 
And  that  slow  look  that  seems  to  stray 
As  each  sweet  feature  made  it  stay — 
And  that  small  finger,  lightly  laid 
On  dimpled  cheek  and  glossy  braid, 
As  if  to  know  that  all  they  seem 
Is  really  there,  and  not  a  dream — 
I  wish  I  knew  the  gentle  thought 
By  all  this  living  beauty  wrought ! 
I  wish  I  knew  if  that  sweet  brow, 
That  neck  on  which  thou  gazest  now — 
If  thy  rich  lip  and  brilliant  face — 
Thy  perfect  figure's  breezy  grace — 
If  these  are  half  the  spell  to  thee 
That  will,  this  night,  bewilder  me ! 


88  FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


TO  A  BELLE. 


ALL  that  them  art,  I  thrillingly 

And  sensibly  do  feel ; 
For  my  eye  doth  see,  and  my  ear  doth  hear, 

And  my  heart  is  not  of  steel ; 
I  meet  thee  in  the  festal  hall — 

I  turn  thee  in  the  dance — 
And  I  wait,  as  would  a  worshipper, 

The  giving  of  thy  glance. 

Thy  beauty  is  as  undenied 

As  the  beauty  of  a  star ; 
And  thy  heart  beats  just  as  equally, 

Whate'er  thy  praises  are  ; 
And  so  long  without  a  parallel 

Thy  loveliness  hath  shone, 
That,  follow'd  like  the  tided  moon, 

Thou  mov'st  as  calmly  on. 

Thy  worth  I,  for  myself,  have  seen — 

I  know  that  thou  art  leal  ; 
Leal  to  a  woman's  gentleness, 

And  thine  own  spirit's  weal ; 
Thy  thoughts  are  deeper  than  a  dream, 

And  holier  than  gay ; 
And  thy  mind  is  a  harp  of  gentle  strings, 

Where  angel  fingers  play. 


FUGITIVE  POETRY. 

I  know  all  this— I  feel  all  this— 

And  my  heart  believes  it  true ; 
And  my  fancy  hath  often  borne  me  on, 

As  a  lover's  fancies  do  ; 
And  I  have  a  heart,  that  is  strong  and  deep, 

And  would  love  with  its  human  all, 
And  it  waits  for  a  fetter  that's  sweet  to  wear, 

And  would  bound  to  a  silken  thrall. 

But  it  loves  not  thee. — It  would  sooner  bind 

Its  thoughts  to  the  open  sky  ; 
It  would  worship  as  soon  a  familiar  star, 

That  is  bright  to  every  eye. 
'Twere  to  love  the  wind  that  is  sweet  to  all — 

The  wave  of  the  beautiful  sea — 
'Twere  to  hope  for  all  the  light  in  Heaven, 

To  hope  for  the  love  of  thee. 

But  wert  thou  lowly — yet  leal  as  now  ; 

Rich  but  in  thine  own  mind  ; 
Humble — in  all  but  the  queenly  brow ; 

And  to  thine  own  glory  blind — 
Were  the  world  to  prove  but  a  faithless  thing, 

And  worshippers  leave  thy  shrine — 
My  love  were,  then,  but  a  gift  for  thee, 

And  my  strong  deep  heart  were  thine. 


FUGITIVE  POETRY. 


A  PORTRAIT. 

SHE'S  beautiful !     Her  raven  curls 
Have  broken  hearts  in  envious  girls — • 
And  then  they  sleep  in  contrast  so, 
Like  raven  feathers  upon  snow, 
And  bathe  her  neck — and  shade  the  bright 
Dark  eye  from  ^vhich  they  catch  the  light, 
As  if  their  graceful  loops  were  made 
To  keep  that  glorious  eye  in  shade, 
And  holier  make  its  tranquil  spell, 
Like  waters  in  a  shaded  well. 

I  cannot  rhyme  about  that  eye— 
I've  match'd  it  with  a  midnight  sky — 
I've  said  'twas  deep,  and  dark,  and  wild, 
Expressive,  liquid,  witching,  mild — 
But  the  jewell'd  star,  and  the  living  air 
Have  nothing  in  them  half  so  fair. 

She's  noble — noble — one  to  keep 
Embalm'd  for  dreams  of  fever'd  sleep — 
An  eye  for  nature — taste  refin'd, 
Perception  swift,  and  ballanc'd  mind, — 
And  more  than  all,  a  gift  of  thought 
To  such  a  spirit-fineness  wrought, 
That  on  my  ear  her  language  fell, 
As  if  each  word  dissolv'd  a  spell. 


FUGITIVE  POETRY. 

Yet  I  half  hate  her.     She  has  all 
That  would  ensure  an  angel's  fall — 
But  there's  a  cool  collected  look, 
As  if  her  pulses  beat  by  book — 
A  measure'd  tone,  a  cold  reply, 
A  management  of  voice  and  eye, 
A  calm,  possess'd,  authentic  air, 
That  leaves  a  doubt  of  softness  there, 
'Till — look  and  worship  as  I  may — 
My  fever 'd  thoughts  will  pass  away. 

And  when  she  lifts  her  fringing  lashes, 
And  her  dark  eye  like  star-light  flashes — 
And  when  she  plays  her  quiet  wile 
Of  that  calm  look,  and  measur'd  smile, 
I  go  away  like  one  who's  heard 
In  some  fine  scene  the  prompter's  word, 
And  make  a  vow  to  break  her  chain, 
And  keep  it — till  we  meet  again, 


ERRATA.— 16th  page,  10th  line  from  top,  "  as  if  it  were"  for  "  as  it 
were."  Same  page  llth  line  from  top  "  incense"  for  "  insense."  46th  page, 
llth  line  from  the  bottom,  "  go  its  channel"  for  "  go  up  its  channel."  Page 
60,  2nd  line,  "  As  you  like  it,"  for  "  Much  ado  about  Nothing."  In  the  table 
of  Contents  "  A  Portrait,"  page  90,  is  omitted. 


W735 
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